


Those Who Speak with Wild Beasts

by magisterpavus



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Friends to Lovers, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, M/M, Magic-Users, Minor Violence, Secret Identity, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 16:58:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 104,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7061515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his mother's death, seventeen-year-old Prince Laurent of Vere is sent to the neighboring kingdom of Akielos to wed the Crown Prince Damianos and forge a bond of peace between the two countries. But his uncle, the Ambassador to Akielos, has other ideas. When Laurent's closest friend Aimeric betrays and impersonates him, Laurent finds himself forced to hide his identity and rely on the gift his mother gave him - the ability to speak to animals - in order to survive in the frightening new world of Akielos and reclaim his crown. </p><p>(a.k.a. The Goose Girl AU, based off of the Grimm's fairy tale & the book by Shannon Hale.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hello, Sparrow

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who wanted me to write this AU; here it is!
> 
> There are some direct quotes from the Goose Girl novel (which if you have not already read, you should) as this is the exposition and I felt that some things (like the story of the three gifts) would be more useful in their original form. But the rest of the story will ofc differ from the original, and will probably be quite a bit darker. But there will be fluff and happy times too! 
> 
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoy.  
> Below is a map to give you a visual reference of where everything is taking place.

He was born Laurent Émile Adrien Rabat, Second Prince of Vere, and he did not open his eyes for three days.

The fretting queen and pacing king sent for the best physicians in the land, and at any one moment several of them could be found gathered around the gilded crib, listening to his breathing and his hummingbird heart, feeling his fierce grip and delicate milk-pale skin. All was sound, they pronounced. But still, his eyes did not open.

“You are a prince,” his father whispered in his ear. “Open your eyes.”

The baby cooed in his sleep.

The Crown Prince Auguste, four and already bursting with the energy and vigor his new brother lacked, draped himself over the edge of the crib and touched the baby’s fine golden hair with chubby, curious fingers. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked, with the innocent ignorance of a child.

His mother shook her head and shushed him. “Nothing is wrong with him,” she murmured. “Nothing at all.”

That third night, the queen sent the physicians away. She stayed in the nursery, watching her son dream, a small shifting bundle of blankets. Slowly, after a long time spent thinking, she rose from her chair, and bent over the crib, stroking his cheek. “Do you want me to tell you a story?” she asked. “I will, my little one, if you will listen.” She lifted him up into her arms.

At dawn, the nurse paused outside the nursery at the sound of the rocking chair creaking and a sweet voice singing about magpies and ravens. She burst in, ready to call the guards, only to see that it was the queen herself singing, and that the baby was looking up at her with wide blue eyes.

*

The queen had always been a quiet, private person, preferring to spend much of her time in the palace gardens alone. But as Laurent grew tired of his crib, she began to take her second son with her on clear days, to sit under the blooming cherry and apple trees and take his tiny hand in hers and name all she saw. She told him the names of the trees and the flowers that made him sneeze when she tucked them behind his ear; she told him the fantastical version of Vere’s history; she told him of the kingdom that lay beyond Vere and of the wondrous, dangerous things there.

And she told him the names of the birds, of the robins and jays and kingfishers and crows that soared above them and chattered noisily in the trees and reeds. “Listen,” she would say, “the dove with the green spot there is looking for twigs to impress his picky mate. And there, that redwing in the rose bush is preparing to migrate south where it is warmer.” And Laurent would tip his head to the side, and listen.

Laurent began to speak in full sentences at one year.

The queen tried her best to keep it hidden, but once the words came it was difficult to stop them. Only Auguste was delighted by the little prince’s early speech – Veretians disliked anything out of the ordinary. The king himself was uncomfortable with the servants’ gossip and his own brother’s suggestions that the queen possessed unnatural methods of awakening a child’s words. But at the same time he was stubborn and proud, and liked the idea of having sired such an exceptional learner.

And learn Laurent did. On rainy or snowy days, his mother taught him the real history of Vere, which was fantastical in its own right. And when he tired of that, she would sing to him, songs of women who rode horses made of shadows, men who turned everything they touched to gold, lands where the sky was the sea and the earth cradled the sun. And Laurent learned the words and sang with her, in the high, sweet voice of a toddler.

When he was old enough to walk on his own, she took him to the swan pond, which Laurent loved even more than the gardens. He would kneel on the muddy bank and dip his hands into the water, watching minnows swim between his fingers and enticing the birds as big as he was with bits of bread. The swans nibbled on the bread right out of his hand, and he marveled at their long, graceful necks and wide, white wings.

Whenever he ran out of bread, they would splash and honk before swimming away. Laurent wished they would stay. He told his mother this.

She gave him a long, thoughtful look. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “you should tell them that.”

Laurent’s brow furrowed. He turned back to the swans. “Please stay,” he said, feeling foolish.

His mother laughed lightly, placing a soft hand on his shoulder. “I don’t think he speaks your language, duckling,” she murmured. She looked at the swan and made a sound, halfway between a honk and a whine, and the swan paused, squawking and paddling back to where Laurent knelt, fluffing its feathers expectantly.

Laurent’s lips parted. “How…how do I say there is no more bread?”

His mother made another sound, softer than the first. Laurent repeated it.

“Like that?”

“Yes,” his mother said, biting her lip. “Perfect.”

Laurent made the sound again, and the swan hissed, irritated, and swam off. Laurent smiled at his mother, who was still biting her lip, looking at Laurent as if she had discovered something precious but did not know quite what to do with it.

“Does that…make you happy?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Laurent, with childlike certainty.

His mother hesitated, and then exhaled and pulled him into her lap, gathering him close as she did when she was about to tell a long story. He curled against her chest and listened.

“The Creator spoke the first word, and all that lived on the earth awoke and stretched and opened their mouths and minds to say the word. Through many patterns of stars, they all spoke to one another, the wind to the hawk, the snail to the stone, the frog to the reeds. But after many turnings and many deaths, the languages were forgotten. Yet the sun still moves up and down, and the stars still shift in the sky, and as long as there are movement and harmony, there are words.”

Laurent had never heard a story quite like this one. It seemed…bigger. Older. Ancient, even, and terribly important. He resolved never to forget it.

“Some people are born with the first word of a language resting on their tongue, though it may take some time before they can taste it. There are three kinds, three gifts. Did you know your father and uncle have the first? The gift of people-speaking. Many rulers have it. And people listen to them, and believe them, and love them. It has always been difficult to argue with your father…and even more so with your uncle. His words confuse and muddle and distort until only his truth is the right one. That can be the power of people speaking.”

His mother sighed. “The first gift has kept our country safe. Rulers like your father have talked us out of war with Akielos and Vask for centuries. It can be powerful and good, and it can also be dangerous.” She stroked her son’s yellow hair and chuckled. “Unfortunately, I was not born with that gift.”

Laurent hummed and leaned into her hand. “Do I have it, Mother?”

Her lips tightened, just for a second. “I don’t know,” she admitted. _I hope not,_ she thought.

“If I was not born with it, can it be taught?” Laurent pressed. “Could I learn how to people-speak?”

“Perhaps, but I could not teach you,” his mother murmured. “For I have only the second gift, the gift of speaking to animals.”

Laurent smiled. “Like the swans!”

“Like the swans. I’ve met a few who share this gift, but like me, those people feel more comfortable near the mountains, in the places where animals are not in cages. It can be a difficult life, sparrow. As the stories go, there were once many of us in Vere, but now…so few remember.

“The third gift is lost or rare. I’ve never known one with the gift of nature-speaking, though the stories insist it existed, once. I strain my ears and my eyes and my mind…but I do not know the tongue of fire or wind or tree. Someday, I hope, someone will discover how to hear it again.”

The queen was quiet then, and Laurent thought the story might be over. He looked up at the oak tree they sat under and wondered what it would say.

His mother stood and took his hand, looking down at him with her somber blue eyes. “I felt the earth shift to make a place for you when you were born,” she told him. “And you, like me, were born with a word on your tongue. Only you know it, and someday, you will discover it on your own. I cannot teach you that.”

Laurent reached out and brushed his small fingers over the tree’s rough bark, blinking up at his mother earnestly. “But you can teach me to speak with the swans.”

She swallowed and nodded. “Yes, my little prince. But listen – you must tell no one what I teach you. The Council will be suspicious. Your uncle will spread rumors. Your father will be angry.”

Laurent’s eyes widened. “But why, Mother?”

She sighed, tipping her head up to the sky. “Others are suspicious of those who speak with wild beasts.”

*

They returned each day to the pond under the guise of morning strolls. But when no gardener or courtier was near, Laurent practiced the sounds he heard the swans make.

His mother was a patient and encouraging teacher. “Their world is much simpler than ours, sparrow, so they need fewer words. Listen, the sounds often repeat – the large one is greeting the one with the gray speckles. They are sisters. If they were brothers, the sound would not go up at the end.”

“I heard it,” Laurent said proudly. “Like this.” And he repeated it perfectly.

“Yes,” his mother said softly, proud in her own way. “You can notice the tiny differences and imitate them – that is your talent. But it takes practice, too – like learning a foreign language.” Laurent made a face – though he was only seven, his tutors had begun insisting he start studying Akielon and Patran. Laurent much preferred the swans’ language to the ugly, harsh syllables of the south.

His mother laughed at his disgruntled expression. “Well, perhaps it is not _exactly_ like learning Akielon.”

Laurent huffed. “If it was, I would’ve stopped listening to the swans ages ago.”

His mother rolled her eyes in a very unqueenly way. Laurent loved when she did unqueenly things around him – it made her feel more like a friend than a mother. “You are a prince,” she reminded him. “And Akielos is our neighbor country.”

“Our mean neighbor country,” Laurent mumbled.

She looked at him sharply. “Has your father been filling your head with talk of ‘Akielon barbarians’ again?”

“Well, they are,” Laurent said defensively. “Their king tries to take our land! And Father says they walk around naked –”

His mother rubbed her temple and closed her eyes. “Laurent,” she said, in a tone that was very queenly indeed. He wilted under her disapproving blue gaze, though it softened after a few moments. “Your father knows many things, but he is no expert on Akielos. It is unfair to judge people you know little about. Do you understand that, Laurent?” He nodded timidly. “The Akielons are not barbarians or monsters. They are people, like you and me.” She smiled. “Maybe not quite like you and me. But that does not make them bad. Just different.”

“Different,” Laurent repeated. “I’ll try not to forget that, Mother.”

“Good,” she said, smile growing. “Now, would you like to speak to the falcons today?”

And so it was that the two of them spent their mornings at the swan pond or in the gardens, trying to call the flitting birds down from the trees. They liked Laurent well enough (when he plied them with seeds and berries, anyway), but they were busy little creatures who rarely stayed to talk. Some days they would visit the chicken and pigeon coops, and Laurent learned some of their squawky, domestic chatter. When the hunt-master was out, they visited the fierce-eyed falcons and sharp-beaked hawks and wide-eyed owls, who spoke too often of killing things for Laurent’s comfort.

One day, after returning from an unfruitful chase after a wayward pheasant, they passed by the corrals. Laurent stopped at the warm, earthy smell, going up on his tiptoes and peering through the slats of the fence at the stable-master, who was riding a handsome chestnut in circles around and around. His mother watched him wordlessly.

After a minute or two, he said, “I want to speak to that one. The horse.”

His mother touched his shoulder. “Ah. Such a clever thing to ask, my little prince. I have tried to speak to many animals, you know. The wild ones, the deer and wolves, will not stay still long enough to listen or be listened to. The small animals like lizards, toads, and rats have a language that is perhaps too simple and quick for us bigger animals to truly understand. And the domestic creatures like dogs and cats and cows have grown used to communicating with us in their own ways, without words. Birds are perfect for speech but they do little more than talk, as you have seen.”

She smiled. “But the horse, ah, Laurent, the horse is a very special creature. Do you remember when I told you that you were born with a word on your tongue?” He nodded. “Before you were born, I helped one of the grooms deliver a foal. Most improper for a queen, of course, but I was curious and insistent, and so the little filly fell into my arms. And I heard her, just after she tumbled out, emit a mournful little sound, something which sounded like ‘Yulee.’ Laurent, it was her name. Horses are born with their name on their tongues, and once you repeat it back to them, you can always hear them and they can always hear you. Like a voice in your head. Yulee still speaks to me whenever I am near. I have tried it with a litter of kittens and a calf and newly hatched chicks, but only the horse has responded. What do you think of that?”

“I think,” Laurent whispered, “that I would like a horse friend. Very much.”

His mother shook her head. “Not yet, my little prince. You are too young.”

Laurent pouted. “But…but I am clever, I am talented, you said –”

“All the cleverness in the world will not stop you from falling and hitting your head,” she interrupted, though her tone was still gentle. “Not yet does not mean never, Laurent. Someday, some year, you may go to the stable as often as you wish and your father will not fret and your uncle cannot stop you. But for now, you must be content with your winged friends.”

He nodded and turned away reluctantly, only to startle back – there was someone else on the path running along the corrals.

It was Councillor Guion, Lord of Fortaine, and his son, Aimeric. They were visiting Arles for the summer. He inclined his head to them, and the queen gazed coolly back. “Your Majesty,” he murmured, and then to Laurent, “Your Highness.”

His son was pretty and poised, with hair like burnished bronze and high, rosy cheeks. He walked with his hands clasped neatly and head held high, eyes centered on the path ahead. As a little boy he had been prone to violent tantrums, notorious for screaming, rolling on the floor like a landed fish, and turning all shades of pink and purple. But he was seven now, like Laurent, and seemed prim as any noble’s son.

“Hello, Prince Laurent,” Aimeric said sweetly. “We are going to the gardens. Come for tea sometime.”

“Thank you,” Laurent said, a bit uneasy. There was something dark in the boy’s gaze, something false in the line of his smile. But then Aimeric’s eyes flicked down respectfully and the feeling passed as he did, leaving Laurent with narrowed eyes and his mother close beside him.

“What a serious little boy,” his mother remarked. “Guion has so many sons, I lose track, but none are quite so…mature.”

“I am mature,” Laurent said, tugging at her sleeve.

She held him closer, her eyes flickering. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, you are.” She shook herself a little and forced a smile. “But enough talk of silly things like nobles and tea. Let us spend the rest of the day at the swan pond, shall we?”

The days turned into months which turned into years.

*

Laurent did not just grow up clever. He grew up beautiful.

Like a flower, his uncle said. Laurent hated being compared to a flower.

Auguste was never compared to flowers. He was never called “delicate” or “demure.” By the time he was ten, Auguste spent most of his time outside sparring with blunted swords, learning falconry, and hunting with the king. By the time Laurent was ten, he spent most of his time confined to the palace, drowning in Akielon grammar books and learning the etiquette expected of him as a Veretian prince. His escapes to the garden and swan pond with his mother were his only respite from the monotony, but in the winter of his tenth year those visits ended as his mother fell ill.

His uncle assured him it was nothing to worry about – the queen was delicate like Laurent, he said, and prone to bouts of illness in the cold months. Still, Laurent could not help but worry whenever he saw his father kneeling beside her bed, lips moving in unspoken prayers, his mother’s fair face paler than the snow outside.

Auguste, now fourteen, tried to distract Laurent as best he could from their ailing mother’s pain. Fourteen and tall for his age, the Crown Prince cut an impressive figure, and at times Laurent could hardly believe Auguste was his brother. But he was, and so he let Laurent ride on his shoulders through the palace halls when nobody was looking, and he showed Laurent how to plan trade routes and make battle plans, and on Laurent’s eleventh birthday, he finally capitulated to Laurent’s endless pleas for Auguste to teach him how to spar.

They practiced in Auguste’s own private training ring with wooden swords. Laurent wanted to use the real ones, but after Auguste disarmed him in five seconds he relented and played by his brother’s rules. More or less. Laurent was not as skilled or strong as his brother, but he was faster and quicker-thinking, so he tended to use tactics which Auguste called “dirty” and “underhanded.” Laurent preferred to think of them as _resourceful_.

After four glorious months of training Laurent managed to last five minutes against Auguste, which was difficult to do even for most of the boys Auguste trained with. Laurent almost wished his uncle had seen it.

He was not delicate. He was not demure. He was no shrinking violet.

But perhaps he should have been careful what he wished for, because on a sunny spring day when Auguste was teaching him how to fight with a real sword, they were interrupted by none other than their uncle. He paused on the threshold with several official-looking documents in his arms and raised an eyebrow at the two of them, mouth thinning in disapproval.

Auguste raised an eyebrow right back, folding his arms and facing their uncle squarely. “Can I help you?”

“Auguste,” his uncle said, sighing. “Really? Sparring with _Laurent_? Your little brother belongs in the library, not the ring.”

Auguste didn’t back down. “Does he? Or would you just prefer for him to have no way to defend himself?”

There was something sharp and tense in the air, suddenly. Laurent did not understand Auguste’s set jaw or his uncle’s narrowed eyes, but he did not like it.

His uncle laughed lightly, breaking the heavy silence. “He appears very capable of defending himself. Something tells me that this illicit sparring was not a one-time occurrence. His stance is perfect.”

“I know,” Laurent said, startling both of them. He drew himself up to his full height (which was not very tall at all) and tipped his chin up. “I have been practicing.”

Auguste gave him a _look_. His uncle sighed and shook his head, his voice taking on that disappointed, dangerous tone that made Laurent want to do whatever he wanted and stay out of his way at the same time. “I expected better from you, Auguste. From both of you. What if Laurent had gotten hurt? You would never have forgiven yourself. He is too young, and not suited to the sword like you are.”

Laurent bristled. “Not _suited_?! You said yourself my stance was perfect!”

“Laurent,” Auguste said, running a hand through his hair. “Perhaps…it is best that we postpone this training until you’re older.”

Laurent whirled on him, eyes wide with betrayal. _Don’t listen to him!_ he wanted to scream. _He’s using his gift against you; he’s twisting your thoughts with his people-speaking like he always does._ But he could not say that. His uncle would only turn it against him somehow. So, furiously, he held his tongue.

“There is the reasonable young man I know you to be,” his uncle said approvingly, nodding to Auguste, who was halfheartedly glaring at him. “And, Laurent…I’m afraid your father will have to hear about this, in order for it to be properly enforced. Come, I will take you to him. Don’t look so upset – this is for your own good, nephew.” He extended a ringed hand to Laurent. Laurent looked at it as if it was coated in poison. (For all he knew, it was.)

“You,” Laurent gritted out, sword still held tightly, “are not taking me anywhere.”

Surprise flickered briefly in his uncle’s eyes. He was unused to being disobeyed. Well, he was just going to have to learn to get used to it if he continued to see Laurent as a fragile flower and tried to stop him from doing what he wanted. His uncle’s hand withdrew. “Very well,” he said evenly. “But I think you will find the repercussions to be far harsher if you continue to be so insolent.”

“I don’t care,” Laurent snapped.

“Oh, I think you will,” his uncle said, and turned on his heel to bring the king the news.

*

The repercussions were very harsh.

Laurent’s father had never spoken to him with such anger before, and accused him not only of sparring secretly, but of insulting his uncle and endangering himself by attempting to practice “dangerous magic.” The king declared he was to be kept in the palace at all times, and was not to be allowed anywhere near the gardens, mews, corrals, or swan pond. Laurent barely stopped himself from crying out in protest when the sentence was delivered – it was early spring and the snows were just beginning to melt. He had not visited the swans in months, and now his reunion was to be delayed even further? It was not fair.

His mother remained bound to her sickbed, though some days she was able to walk around her apartments and look out the window. He told her, without details, of his punishment, and she offered him a small, sad smile. “I am glad,” she murmured in a soft, dry voice, “that your brother taught you.”

“But I cannot see the swans,” he said petulantly.

“You can see them from my window,” she told him. “Most other birds have gone south. But the swans remain. They will have cygnets in the spring. You should be careful when you visit them then – they are very protective.”

“You can visit them with me,” Laurent started, but she touched his arm lightly and shook her head.

“Maybe,” she said. “And maybe not.” Her eyes were unfocused, shadowed by tired bags that looked like bruises. “You are strong, Laurent. You must always stay strong, even if I am gone.”

“You’re not gone,” he said stubbornly. “You’re not going anywhere, Mother.”

“Not yet,” she agreed, and held him close as if he was a baby again. She sang him a song about forests and dreams, and he clung to every word with unshed tears pricking at his eyes.

*

Although Auguste tried to make Laurent’s imprisonment as entertaining as possible, Laurent felt hollow and restless as the days dragged on. In his world of cold marble floors and aged tutors and whispering courtiers Laurent yearned for the wild strangeness of the birds’ voices. Even after a new aged tutor ranted on and on about the evils of “heathen magicks,” Laurent yearned.

His chance came on a cool evening when his father held a ball. It was in honor of some general’s wedding, and though Laurent was expected to attend he could have cared less. Still, he let himself be laced up into frilly party clothes and even ate a few little cakes before his chaperones were sufficiently distracted and he managed to slip away, tugging his boots off and running across the damp grass, the breeze ruffling his hair and chilling him with every step.

Once he reached the gardens, he glanced back – the ballroom was a glittering diorama enclosed in glass and gold, and all the people within it were perfect figurines, each in their own perfect place. Laurent realized, with a jolt, that he did not have a place there among them.

He ran to the pond. The darkness was more complete the farther he got from the radiant palace – so dark that the stables and corrals were merely a suggestion of hulking structures, and the trees loomed like watchful sentinels. And when he looked up, the stars seemed dimmer than usual, and so very distant, and with a stumble Laurent realized that he was too small to run away.

He collapsed on the pond’s bank, drawing his knees up to his chest and letting the freezing water lap at his bare toes. One swan, roused by his arrival, swam over and greeted him, nesting in the sand beside him.

 _I am tired,_ Laurent told him, _and lost from my flock._

The swan words he spoke sounded not unlike the mournful wail of a child. The swan nestled closer. _Sleep here_ , was all it said.

So, putting one arm over his face as though it were a wing, he did.

He awoke when two strong hands lifted him.

“Laurent,” Auguste whispered, his voice sounding very far away though it was next to Laurent’s ear. “Laurent, please wake up.”

Laurent’s eyelids felt too heavy to open, his body strangely numb as Auguste hefted him up. Laurent’s head lolled against his shoulder. He smelled like fireplaces and cider. “I’m awake,” he slurred, though he did not feel like he was. Then he shivered violently, and the numbness was at once replaced by a bone-deep cold, his teeth chattering and skin prickling with goose bumps.

“What were you thinking,” Auguste started, and then stopped, perhaps realizing that chastising him was a bit of a lost cause. Instead, he unpinned the cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around Laurent, who still shuddered but let the sudden warmth lull him into a feverish slumber as Auguste carried him back to the palace.

For three weeks he drifted in and out of that same feverish slumber, his apartments filled with physicians as they had been when he was first born. Somewhere, Laurent was sure his uncle was gloating, as his nickname around the palace all too often became “the delicate child.” His father, when he visited, knelt beside Laurent’s bed as he did with his mother, and prayed.

Laurent dreamed in strange, fragmented flashes, of familiar faces and unfamiliar hands and a dark forest filled with birds who warned him of death at every turn, until the trees were filled with shrill warnings and he awoke, gasping and soaked in sweat.

Auguste had apparently not been alone when he found Laurent – he had been assisted by two young guards called Jord and Lazar, and they were assigned to his personal guard shortly after. Laurent liked them – they were loyal and told jokes they should not tell in front of an eleven year old. That was a good thing that came of his near-death experience.

Another good thing was that, out of all of the physicians, one stayed permanently. Paschal, who was a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a funny hat, always gave Laurent extra blankets and let him take his medicine with spoonfuls of honey. The king appointed him as court physician, but ironically Laurent saw Paschal more often than his own father.

But the best thing was that, at the end of the three weeks, when Laurent awoke and the fever had broken, his mother was sitting at his bedside.

“Hello, sparrow,” she said, beaming from ear to ear. “The cygnets hatched today.”


	2. Canary in a Coal Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can I get a hell yeah for the exposition being over & done with? Also - THANK YOU for the great response on the first chap. It's so encouraging for a writer to receive such lovely comments and all those kudos.  
> A few things I forgot to mention about this AU:  
> \- there are no slaves/pets bc they aren't necessary to the plot and slavery is awful so???  
> \- warnings for the regent being extra creepy in this chapter especially, and there will be an iffy scene in the next chap but it won't involve him and laurent. i'm not about that; writing the scene in this chap was difficult to stomach.  
> \- you don't understand how many fucking bird calls i listened to in order to write this story. luckily i was already a horse nerd lmao  
> \- there won't be a full-on damen/laurent sex scene, that doesn't mean there won't be R rated stuff tho ;)  
> \- get ready for some major halvik bc i will shove her into every fic i possibly can i love her so much  
> \- some characters who are canonically veretian will be akielon in this fic. *shrugs* you'll see what i mean i'll make it work, just trust me ok.  
> \- Laurent is 17 in this fic bc I am 17 and like ?? why not have a 17 yr old write a 17 yr old let's try it. (Damen is 19, Aimeric is 17, Auguste is 21.)
> 
> thanks so much, enjoy.

Laurent looked deeply into the cold remains of his peppermint tea, as if the tea leaves would somehow tell him how much longer he had to sit through this torturous affair.

“I want to thank you again for accepting our invitation this afternoon, Prince Laurent. It has been so long since we visited Arles and I know Aimeric gets so lonely at Fortaine. There aren’t many children his age to play with there.” Councillor Guion sat at the small round table across from Laurent, sipping his own tea with enthusiasm. Aimeric sat beside Laurent, and Laurent did not have to look to know that he was rolling his eyes.

“Oh, yes,” Aimeric said, voice saturated with false sincerity. “It’s just dreadful to go months without seeing you, Laurent. I treasure every moment we share in Arles together.”

Laurent hid his own smirk behind his cup. Aimeric was insufferable sometimes, but he possessed the same sarcastic sense of humor as Laurent. Both of them were thirteen and similar enough in appearance that they could have been cousins, perhaps even brothers from afar.

Aimeric was a bit taller and his hair a shade darker, with eyes more green than blue, and although Laurent looked smaller and slimmer than him he was certainly stronger. Aimeric was more of a delicate flower than Laurent had ever been, preferring to play the part of a pampered future lord rather than spar and gallop across the countryside as Laurent did. But anyone who let Aimeric’s pretty face fool them was in for a nasty surprise. He was a flower, but one with many, many thorns. And Laurent knew he despised these teatimes just as much as Laurent did.

But Laurent smiled politely and said, “As do I, Aimeric. It is always a pleasure. How is Fortaine, by the way? The Akielons are keeping away from Delfeur, I hope.”

Guion’s brow furrowed, his beady eyes darting to the side briefly, nervously. Aimeric tossed his head. “Those savages don’t know how to keep away from Delfeur,” he snapped. “One of these days they’re going to get what they deserve.”

Guion sighed. “It is unfortunate…the Akielons seem intent on claiming the province, especially as of late. I fear it will…escalate. It is a little worrisome that King Aleron and Crown Prince Auguste are in Patras at the moment…when they return, someone will have to be the bearer of bad news.” He forced a smile. “But let us not speak of such inconveniences! I am certain the Patran summit is going splendidly. Have you been well, Laurent? I hear the queen is as sprightly as a deer these days.”

“Yes,” Laurent said, his smile a bit more genuine. “We are both doing well. In fact, I…” He glanced out the window; the sun was high in the sky. “I am to go riding with her today, so I’m afraid I must leave soon.”

Guion paused. “Riding?”

Aimeric pursed his lips. “Yes, Father, I told you; he finds time to ride almost every day.”

“I see,” Guion said slowly. “Yes, I believe your uncle said something about that at dinner last night. You ride a stallion, yes? Do you not think, Prince Laurent, that you might be better suited to a gentler mount, given your previous…health?”

Laurent sipped his tea. “My stallion is an excellent horse, and suits me because I am an excellent rider. And, Councillor, though I appreciate your concern, my health has been fine as of late. I would think you might be more concerned about your own health, or lack thereof.” He eyed Guion’s round belly critically. Aimeric snorted into his tea.

Guion spluttered. “I…you…Prince Laurent, you must learn to control that tongue of yours. It is hardly proper for a prince to speak so…so…”

“Bluntly?” Laurent suggested, setting down his tea and rising to leave. “On the contrary, Councillor, Vere could do with a bit more bluntness. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my mother the queen is waiting for me to join her. Thank you for the tea.”

Laurent turned and left Guion’s apartments as a brisk walk, with Aimeric close behind him. As the door shut behind them, Aimeric caught his arm. “Someday that tongue of yours is going to get you in trouble,” Aimeric told him.

Laurent sighed, continuing down the corridor. “Perhaps if your father stopped clinging to my uncle’s every word, I would be more inclined towards civility.”

Aimeric paused. “Still feuding with your uncle, then?” he said lightly. “He is the Ambassador to Akielos and the king’s brother. He is not a good man to have as an enemy, Laurent.”

“Enemy?” Laurent scoffed. “He is an annoyance, not an enemy. Don’t be so dramatic, Aimeric.”

Aimeric frowned and fell silent. They had reached the end of the corridor, and before them lay the path leading to the stables, covered in slowly-melting snow. “Well,” Aimeric said, “I hope you enjoy your ride, Prince Laurent. Do be careful. We wouldn’t want you to fall and break your crown.” He smirked.

“Ha, ha. You wish.” Laurent hesitated before leaving him. “Aimeric…about what your father said. Is the situation really so bad on the border?”

Aimeric’s brow lowered. “It is worse,” he said curtly.

Laurent considered that. “Do you think they can be reasoned with?”

Aimeric laughed. “Who, the Akielons?” He sobered a little. “I don’t know, Laurent. I fear…” He exhaled unsteadily. “We fear there will be war.”

“We?”

Aimeric flushed. “Yes, my, ah, father and I.” He bit his lip. “And your uncle.”

“My uncle?” Laurent echoed, bewildered. “Do you often chat with him about Akielos?”

Aimeric stepped away from him stiffly. “I must go. My tutor made me learn the name of every island in the Ellosean Sea the last time I was late to my lessons. Good day, Your Highness.” And with that, he turned on his heel and marched away, back into the palace.

Laurent watched him go with confusion. Even as a thirteen year old, Aimeric had his moments of unexpected and unsettling maturity. Well, he could be as uptight and pompous as he wished; Laurent didn’t care. He preferred to have fun, and with that resolution in mind, Laurent started off to the stables.

*

Laurent loved the stables, loved the familiar scent of warm bodies and fresh hay that greeted him as he walked past rows of stalls and bowing grooms. He stopped in front of the one he knew best.

 _Falada_ , Laurent said.

The white horse raised his proud head, ears pricked and dark eyes bright with recognition. When he replied, he did so without a single audible sound. _My prince._

Laurent had first spoken his horse’s name when he was eleven, shortly after his illness had passed and his mother had finally persuaded his father to let him visit the animals again. He had done just as his mother told him to, helping the stable-master foal an overdue mare’s knobby-legged colt. Laurent had helped to clean the colt off and steady his unbalanced body as he stood for the first time, and when he said his name in a soft bleat, Laurent had heard it and repeated it back to them. It was just as his mother had said – now, they could hear each other always.

 _I’m sorry I’m late_ , Laurent said, opening the stall door and slipping inside, stroking Falada’s neck. _Yulee isn’t in her stall, so I assume Mother has already left._

Falada snorted in assent, nosing at his hair while Laurent began to brush him down. _Yes. It is cold. You smell like mint._ He snuffled at Laurent hopefully.

_I did not bring you any leaves, Falada. It is just tea._

Falada did not answer. He did not understand some of the words Laurent gave him. Laurent finished brushing him and swung the saddle over his back, pausing when Falada held his breath while he tightened the girth. _I won’t bring you any mint leaves if you make me fall off_ , he warned. Falada let out his breath. Laurent led him out of the stables on a loose rein, their footfalls crunching in the snow. Across the pasture, his mother rode up on her black mare, Yulee, and pranced teasingly around them in a half-circle.

“You’re late,” his mother told him cheerfully. In the bright sunlight, her golden hair seemed to glow like a halo around her soft, lovely face, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. Her crown, silver and sapphire, was nestled crookedly into her curls like an afterthought, yet Laurent thought she had never looked more regal.

“I was busy having a tea party with our favorite Councillor,” Laurent said.

His mother made a face. “Oh, dear. Again? I suppose with your father and brother away, there’s no one to stop him from subjecting you to such torture.” Her tone was light. “How many cups of tea did he make you drink?”

“Three,” Laurent grumbled, swinging himself up into the saddle. Falada shifted restlessly – he was a young horse, and eager to ride. “I think I…may have offended him. Again.”

“Laurent,” she said, shaking her head. “You must learn to control your –”

“Tongue, yes, I know,” he muttered. “But it’s so hard, Mother! He’s like a less clever copy of Uncle.”

She sighed. “I know it’s difficult, Laurent. At least you and Aimeric are friends.”

“Right,” Laurent said. “Aimeric was telling me about the border…Akielos wants Delfeur. Again.”

His mother did not seem as troubled by this as he’d expected. “Yes,” she said distantly. “I figured as much. There is little we can do to stop them, Laurent – their military is considerably larger than ours, you know.”

“So…so what can we do?” Laurent asked, terribly frightened by the thought of Akielon invasion.

She smiled slightly. “Compromise, I suppose. Your uncle, for all his faults, may be able to deal with them successfully. But I thought you wished to ride, not talk politics.”

“Let’s ride,” Laurent agreed. Falada whinnied.

“How about a race?” his mother asked excitedly. “As much as I love you, I believe I need to teach you a lesson in speed.”

“You can try!” Laurent laughed. “But I’m going to win again!”

“We’ll see about that!” she said. And without further warning, his mother urged Yulee into a gallop, tearing across the snowy field, towards a fence on the far side of the pasture. Laurent’s eyes widened, her speed making him uneasy. Laurent followed her at a canter; the snow turning to muddy slush under Falada’s pounding hooves.

“Mother!” he cried, waving at her. “You’re going too fast! And the fence is too high!”

“I’m going to win, sparrow!” she called over her shoulder, faint and joyful. She could not hear him. The fence loomed up before her. Yulee leapt.

And slipped.

Laurent saw the moment that the black mare’s back hoof slid against the icy snow, sending her all off-kilter, her front hoof striking the fence with a sound like a breaking bone. His mother, for a moment, was outlined against the sun, a striking silhouette of shock, and then she fell with Yulee, crumpling and hitting the earth with such force it was a wonder they didn’t shatter.

But perhaps they did, because when Yulee regained her feet, his mother stayed crumpled, a broken, discarded figure lying still amidst the dirty snow. Her face was hidden, head twisted at an unnatural angle.

Laurent must have cried out, because then stable-hands were running across the pasture to help, trying to coax Yulee away from the fallen queen. The mare was standing stiffly over her, nostrils flaring wide in warning whenever anyone came close. Her ears pinned back when Laurent approached, his hands trembling and vision blurred with unshed tears. “Please,” he whispered, reaching for her halter. “Please, you need to step away.”

Yulee made a sound deep in her throat, a raw sound of distress and pain and fear that echoed what Laurent felt then. “Please,” he said again, and then to Falada on the other side of the fence, _Please, tell her to move._

Falada circled back and leapt the fence with ease, startling Yulee but not moving her. He made a soft sound; a nickering noise made by mares to comfort foals, and touched his nose to hers, nudging at her cheek and exhaling warmly against her neck. She hesitated, and then stepped away with a shudder and a sigh that ruffled Falada’s mane, huddling against a nearby tree with eyes rolled back and head hung low.

Laurent ran to his mother, or perhaps stumbled was a more accurate word. He ended up on his knees in the snow, pressing his head to her chest to hear her heartbeat as he had so many times before. But there was nothing. She was empty, silent, a hollowed out shell; and when he turned her over carefully, her blue eyes stared glassily at nothing. There was blood on her cheek; he wiped it away carefully. Her skin was still warm. Her crown had fallen a few inches away, cold and glittering beside her.

He only became aware that he was crying when two stable-hands dragged him away from her, murmuring stupid, meaningless words about how everything was going to be alright, don’t you worry, best you leave now, young Prince Laurent.

“No!” he screamed, fighting against them as they carried him away. His mother was lifted up onto a makeshift stretcher, her blue eyes gazing at him like sapphires set into cold ivory. That was not his mother anymore, he realized. His mother was gone, forever, and with her all the carefree days spent beside the swan pond, learning her gift. “No,” Laurent said again, but this time it was quiet and defeated and he let the men carry him back to the palace without a fight.

*

A letter was sent at once to his father and brother in Patras, but it would be at least three months before they returned. Laurent did not leave his apartments. He settled upon the window seat and curled his knees up to his chest, forehead pressed to the cold glass and rumpled nightshirt doing little to stop his shivering. A servant knocked and tried to give him food at dinner, but Laurent refused to eat anything. He refused to do anything, except sit and try not to cry again.

Some time later, another person knocked on the door.

“Go away,” Laurent said, dully.

“Laurent,” his uncle said, in a tone that could almost be called kind. “I’m so sorry. Please, nephew, may I come in?”

Laurent closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself. Being alone was so very cold. And…and his uncle was family. The only family he had here, now. “Yes,” he finally said, after so long he did not even know if his uncle was still there, still listening.

But then the door creaked open, and his uncle stood there in his room, frowning and approaching Laurent as one might approach a cornered animal. “Oh, Laurent,” he murmured, and something in his voice made Laurent tremble, tears filling his eyes anew, and then he was surging forward and his uncle’s arms were around him, holding him close as Laurent sobbed into his shirt. “Hush, nephew. Hush, hush.”

Laurent eventually quieted, though his shoulders still shook and he still clung to his uncle, feeling small and helpless. “It was my fault,” Laurent said, face wet with tears as he looked up at him. “I wanted to ride today, and she wanted to race, and I dared her to and – and – I couldn’t stop her! I tried, I tried, but I couldn’t –”

His uncle stroked his hair, calming. “You couldn’t have known, Laurent. Perhaps if you had been a little faster…a little louder…but that doesn’t matter, now. Your mother is dead, Laurent.”

Laurent sniffled. “It’s not fair,” he said. “It’s not…”

“I know you were close to her,” his uncle murmured, fingers in his hair again. “It is a terrible thing to lose someone so dear. But I’m here for you now, Laurent. I promise.”

Laurent huddled against him gratefully, and was only half-aware of his uncle leading him out of his apartments and down the hall. He grasped his sleeve. “Where are we going?”

“I have a special treat for you,” his uncle said, turning the corner and going up the stairs to his own apartments. “Something to make you feel better. I couldn’t just leave you alone in your room to cry tonight, Laurent. That would be cruel.”

Laurent did not know what he meant – a cake or sweet, maybe? His stomach grumbled in anticipation, and his uncle chuckled and gave him a small smile. They reached the door and his uncle opened it for him, closing it behind them with a click which Laurent barely noticed. His uncle’s apartments were smaller, of course, but well-decorated, mostly in rich reds and browns. He led Laurent over to a little sofa in the corner, and though Laurent could sit comfortably on it, it did not seem large enough for a grown man.

But Laurent was distracted by the yellow canary in a gilded cage on the end table, hopping around on its little wooden bar excitedly. “Oh,” he said, enchanted by the little creature. “Uncle, I didn’t know you had a bird.”

His uncle, who had crossed the room to rifle in a cabinet, paused. “Mm, yes. Lovely, isn’t it? A gift from my last visit to Akielos – one of the few tiny, beautiful things in that land.”

“Oh,” Laurent said again, tilting his head at the bird. He glanced over his shoulder warily – his uncle was still turned away. Quietly, he chirped, _Hello_.

The canary froze, and blinked at him with large, black eyes. It did not chirp a friendly reply. Instead, it shrilled, _Danger! Danger, danger!_

Laurent recoiled. The canary ruffled its feathers and repeated the warning. His uncle returned, putting a hand on Laurent’s shoulder and an ornate goblet on the table beside the birdcage. “Here you are, nephew. Another gift from Akielos – a sweet drink made from exotic pomegranates. I think you’ll love it.” He eyed the bird, who was still acting oddly. “Hm, it isn’t usually so…irritating.”

Laurent’s hands were shaking under the table, clasped in his lap tightly. “Perhaps you should give it some birdseed?” he suggested. “I think it’s just very hungry.”

“Ah, yes,” his uncle said. The bird’s feed dish was nearly empty. He patted Laurent’s shoulder. “I shall get you something to eat while I’m at it, hm?” And he left the room to rummage through another cabinet, leaving Laurent alone with the jabbering bird and frantic pounding of his heart.

 _What do you mean?_ he hissed to the bird. _Danger?_

 _The man,_ the bird shrieked, _bad, bad, danger!_ It shuffled forward, and pecked the rim of the goblet firmly. _Danger! Sleep, bad sleep! Touching, the man touches!_

Laurent’s blood ran cold. _Who,_ he said. _Who does the man touch?_

_The boy. Yellow feathers, like you. Green eyes._

Laurent rose abruptly, spilling the goblet and its drugged drink across the dark wood.

 _Do you often chat with him about Akielos?_ Laurent thought he was going to be sick.

The canary clacked its beak warningly. His uncle walked into the room. Laurent backed away.

His uncle paused, and raised an eyebrow, glancing at the toppled goblet, which was dripping crimson slowly onto the floor. “Oh, dear. There’s no need to be upset, Laurent, it’s just a spill.” He took a step towards Laurent and the canary _screeched_. Laurent stumbled back, nearly tripping on the edge of the rug, feeling vulnerable and exposed in his long white nightshirt. The canary scratched at the bars of the cage and his uncle scowled, smacking the metal top and scaring the bird into silence.

Laurent’s heart pattered madly, and he was certain his uncle could see his pulse leap in his throat. “I…I should go,” he said, his voice cracking. “It’s late, and –”

His uncle stepped closer, and when he spoke Laurent could feel the power behind his words, the persuasion, urging Laurent to do whatever he wanted no matter the cost, no matter how vile it was. Such was the power of people-speaking.

“Calm down, Laurent,” his uncle murmured, reaching out, tipping up Laurent’s chin. He held another full goblet in his hand, and lifted it to Laurent’s lips. “You don’t have to be alone in your grief. I’m here for –”

“No!” Laurent snapped, voice rough with fear and revulsion, jerking violently out of his uncle’s grasp and upending the goblet, splattering them both with the cloying red drink. “Get away from me.” He reached the door, fumbling with the lock and trying to yank it open, his back hitting the doorframe hard. “Don’t ever touch me or Aimeric again.”

His uncle’s eyes widened for a second, then narrowed. “Your mother was a witch,” he said, lip curling with contempt. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“When my father gets back, I’ll –”

“You’ll what? Tattle on me? Oh, Laurent, I wouldn’t advise that. Do you really want everyone to know what I did to you, how I took you to my bed – oh, but you were begging for it, you were so lonely after your mother’s death –”

“Shut up!” Laurent shouted. “Shut up, I didn’t –”

“It’s my word against yours,” his uncle said, low and dangerous. “The word of the king’s brother against the word of the king’s sickly, wayward child.”

Laurent finally pulled the lock free and all but ran out the door, into the empty corridor. His uncle stood smugly in the doorway, his beard stained red. “Does Aimeric even remember it?” Laurent asked bitterly. “Does he know what you do to him?”

His uncle smiled thinly. “Yes,” he said. “He likes it.”

Laurent blanched. “How _dare_ you –”

“How dare _me_?” His uncle laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound. “Oh, nephew. If you breathe a word of this to anyone, you will regret it. I will make certain of that.” He started to close the door, and paused halfway. “Goodnight, Laurent. Sleep tight.”

Laurent ran.

When he reached his apartments, the guards on duty had been changed – it was Jord and Lazar, and they tried to ask about his stained shirt, but he brushed them off, composing himself as best he could. “Don’t let anyone into my rooms, especially not my uncle,” he said. “That is an order.”

They exchanged troubled looks. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“And send for the physician Paschal,” Laurent added. “At once.”

*

Paschal looked nervously around his room. Laurent sat upon his settee, fully dressed in his usual tightly laced clothes, the soiled nightshirt balled up in a hidden corner. He crossed his legs, and cleared his throat. Paschal stood up a little straighter and looked back at him. “Prince Laurent,” he said. “What seems to be the matter? You look rather pale.”

“I have just lost my dear mother,” Laurent said coolly. “I am still in shock.”

“I…see.” Paschal’s brow furrowed. “Well, then might I suggest a brew of chamomile and –”

“No,” Laurent said. “You may not.” Paschal fell silent, eyes wide. “Tell me, physician – has my uncle ever requested a sleeping draught or sedative from you?”

Paschal paused. “I…yes, he has. He suffers from severe insomnia, so I prescribed him a tincture of belladonna. Prince Laurent, how did you know –”

“Belladonna,” Laurent repeated. “Isn’t that a poison?”

“In large doses, yes. But in small doses, it is a fast-acting sedative. It causes dizziness, drowsiness, relieves pain, and relaxes the muscles. All very helpful in treating insomnia.”

“My uncle does not have insomnia,” Laurent said.

Paschal blinked. “Your Highness, he has told me –”

“He is a liar and a snake, and you would do well not to listen to anything he tells you,” Laurent snapped. “Paschal, you are not to give him anything to treat his supposed insomnia ever again. Understood?”

Paschal wrung his hands, bewildered. “Your Highness, I cannot just stop giving him his medicine –”

“That was an order, Paschal,” Laurent said coolly. He sighed, and rubbed his eyes, shoulders slumping. “Please, just…believe me when I say my uncle does not need it. Alright?”

“Alright,” Paschal said after a beat, frowning. “Prince Laurent…is there anything else I may do for you? You seem…shaken.”

Laurent swallowed hard. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I suppose I am.” Paschal waited unsurely. Laurent sighed. “The chamomile tea,” he said in a small voice, “would be nice. Thank you.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Paschal said, rising and inclining his head gently. “Of course.”

*

The next day while venturing out to the stables, Laurent overheard two servants talking in the hall.

“The Ambassador was in an awful rage this morning,” one muttered. “Broke a vase, I heard.”

“No, not a vase,” the other said. “A birdcage. Killed his canary. What a shame, it had such a lovely song.”

*

Later that day, Laurent went to visit Aimeric. He had debated it for much of the morning, but finally decided that if he was in Aimeric’s situation, he would not want to be alone. He would want to know that someone was on his side.

Still, he knew how prickly Aimeric could be, and brought a tray of Aimeric’s favorite petits fours as a peace offering. He found him in the library, where the two of them had often met as children to read exciting tales of heroic knights and blushing maidens. Today, though, Aimeric wasn’t reading at all. He was just gazing out the window idly, reclining in one of the ornate, high-backed chairs. When Laurent approached, he glanced up lazily and leaned back, folding his arms, taking in Laurent’s grim expression and the plate of desserts.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Your Highness?” Aimeric drawled. “I would have thought you’d be deep in mourning.”

“I am,” Laurent said, gesturing to his attire. It was entirely black, as was customary in Vere after the death of a loved one. “I wished to speak with you.”

“Judging by the petits fours, you wish to ask a favor of me,” Aimeric corrected.

“Not…exactly.” Laurent handed him the plate. Aimeric took it gingerly as Laurent sat down opposite him, on the sofa. “I know what my uncle has been doing to you.”

Aimeric almost dropped the plate. “What are you talking about?” he retorted, eyes sharp and bright.

Laurent bit his lip. “I know,” he said carefully, “that he manipulates you into believing that you want him –”

“Where did you get such a ridiculous idea?” Aimeric laughed, shaking his head. But his laugh was too high, too breathy to be genuine.

“He tried to do the same to me,” Laurent said quietly.

Out of everything he had said, _that_ got the biggest reaction out of Aimeric. He stood abruptly, scattering the petits fours across the floor. He glared at Laurent, one of his hands curling into a fist. “He did not,” Aimeric snarled. “He doesn’t want _you_ , you brat. Just me.”

Laurent stared at him. “Aimeric – he’s…what he’s doing is wrong, it’s sick, can’t you see that –”

Aimeric’s face purpled. “You’re wrong! He loves me, more than he could ever love you!” He sneered. “You’re just jealous.”

“He doesn’t love you,” Laurent said numbly. “That’s not love, Aimeric.”

“Oh?” Aimeric retorted in a sing-song voice. “Then what is love, you spoiled little prince? A dead mother and a pretty white pony? Is that love?”

Laurent took a step back. “You’re just a child,” he said. “Aimeric, we’re _children_ , and he’s –”

“The king’s brother,” Aimeric finished triumphantly. “The second most powerful man in all of Vere. You _are_ jealous, aren’t you?”

Laurent slapped him across the face, hard enough to leave a red handprint on Aimeric’s pale cheek.

Aimeric gaped at him, eyes wide. Then he sneered again. “Why don’t you go cry to your mommy, little prince? Oh, wait. You can’t anymore.”

Laurent was suddenly very tired. He stepped away. “I’m sorry, Aimeric,” he said. “I’m sorry he’s ruined you too.”

And then he left, crushing the pastries underfoot.

*

For the next three months, Laurent avoided his previous acquaintances like the plague. He did not take tea with Guion and his son, and if his uncle was in the vicinity, Laurent left it. He spent much of his time in the stables or out riding in the woods with Falada, sometimes with Yulee when she seemed to be pining for the open fields.

The funeral was a somber affair, a procession through Arles with Laurent at the head of it. Laurent had barred his uncle from being anywhere near him or his mother, so he rode in the carriage a ways back, hidden from the public. Laurent rode Falada, whose white mane and tail had been adorned with black ribbons, just like the one tying back Laurent’s hair. It felt wrong to lead the procession – normally, his father and brother would be there with him, but they were not even halfway home and his mother’s body could not wait for them.

She had been placed in a heavy white coffin, which was placed in the black hearse pulled by two black horses. The entire city mourned with Laurent – they passed by countless houses and shops draped in black cloth, with women and children waving little black flags out the windows. Somewhere, a flute played, high and woeful. Laurent did not cry at all. He did not allow himself to. The people could not see him as anything less than strong and capable. So he straightened in the saddle and repressed everything – all the sadness, the fear, the lingering shock and disgust. He became poised and elegant in his sorrow.

The procession ended at the royal cemetery, a small city in its own right. His mother’s new home was a gleaming marble tomb, white as bone. Laurent did not look when they lowered her into the earth, but afterwards when the procession had dispersed, he dismounted Falada and traced the engraved letters on the stone slab. _Queen Hennike, First of Her Name, Wife of King Aleron and Mother of Crown Prince Auguste and Prince Laurent._

She deserved so many more words. She deserved an entire book. But all Laurent could give her was a swan feather, warm and soft atop the cold, hard stone.

*

By the time his father and Auguste returned, Laurent had become accustomed to repression. So as the king wept at his wife’s grave and Auguste worried over Laurent like a mother hen, Laurent remained collected and cool. He continued to wear dark clothes and visited her grave once a month, but he did not ever speak of her or of what had transpired on the night of her death. And if anyone tried to speak to him about it, he ignored them.

In his mother’s absence and in the wake of his falling-out with Aimeric, Laurent spent more and more time with Auguste. Auguste, who was a very good horseman in his own right, rode with him when there was no snow on the ground, and did not go too fast or jump over any tall fences. When Laurent turned fourteen, they resumed their sparring lessons, and once Laurent had gotten the hang of that Auguste taught him hand-to-hand combat, and Laurent learned how to use his small size and quickness to his advantage.

Although Laurent never told Auguste outright what their uncle had tried to do, Auguste was very good at sensing when things were wrong. So he did not miss how Laurent tensed and looked away whenever their uncle was near, or how he changed the subject whenever their uncle was the subject. But he did not press the issue, and Laurent was grateful for it.

It was not that he did not trust Auguste to keep that secret. Laurent just did not want to tell it, to him or anyone; for fear that his uncle might somehow find out and twist the truth as he always did.

When Laurent was fifteen, he took part in Vere’s annual Summerday celebration, as a contestant in the much-anticipated horse races. Falada was a four-year-old stallion by then, not yet an adult but already much larger and faster than most of the other horses. Laurent had grown in the past few years too, leaving chubby cheeks and soft hands for high cheekbones, lean muscles, and strong hands marked with sword and bridle callouses. His hair, grown out a few inches past his shoulders, was tied back like a golden horsetail of his own.

Laurent eyed the competition – to his left, a sturdy bay gelding with a slight teenage girl atop it, petting his mane in an attempt to calm herself and making them both nervous in the process. To his right, a spotted mare ridden by a soldier who gave her too little rein, trying to control her and making her prance uncomfortably as he dug his heels tightly into her sides.

_Falada, what do you think?_

Falada tossed his head. _She does not want to be here. I can convince her to be slow._

_And the other one?_

Falada snorted and glanced back at him. _He is old._

_Falada!_

_Do not worry, my Prince. We will win._

Laurent patted his shoulder approvingly as he turned to the spotted mare and presumably told her his proposal. She snorted and looked at Laurent, ears pricked with interest.

Falada made a sound like laughter deep in his throat. _She says yes, but only if you bring her apples afterwards._

Laurent grinned. _I promise I will. All the apples she could ever want._

Falada told her. She whinnied happily, and relaxed her stance, ignoring the soldier’s continued attempts to prod her into alertness. The bay looked at them suspiciously.

Up ahead, the mediator had the white flag raised high. The crowd waited eagerly. The racetrack loomed up ahead. From the royal box, Auguste waved his encouragement.

The mediator counted down, and the flag dropped. The horses sprang into motion, pounding down the track like wild beasts, foam frothing at their bits and hooves hardly touching the earth. At first Laurent thought the spotted mare had changed her mind, but halfway down the track she slowed noticeably to a loping canter, feigning injury as her soldier tugged uselessly on her bridle. Falada did not stop to gloat – the bay was neck in neck with them, the girl as wholly focused on winning as Laurent was, clutching the reins with white knuckles. Falada surged forward, stride stretched as far as it could go, but it wasn’t enough. The bay was just as fast.

_Old, huh?_

Falada snorted in frustration. _We must distract him._  
The finish line was seconds away. Laurent’s mind worked furiously. Then, _Tell him his rider is about to fall off._

Falada must have said something, because the bay’s stride faltered, skidding hooves sending up a cloud of dust, his rider’s curse ringing out stridently as Laurent and Falada crossed the finish line with ease, the bay a full horse-length behind them. The spotted mare finished several seconds later, her infuriated rider storming off.

The crowd roared with approval, Auguste ran over to wrap Laurent up in a bruising hug, holding him out an arms’ length and beaming. “For a few moments there, I thought for sure the bay was going to beat you! But my little brother proves, once again, that no one can beat him.”

“You could,” Laurent said, smiling back up at him. Falada snorted in disapproval. Auguste gave him a fond pat.

Afterwards, as Laurent was heading to the stables with Falada, his father came by to congratulate him, trailed by his guards. Every interaction with his father was like this – impersonal and not private in the slightest. But Laurent still appreciated the gesture.

“I’m proud of you,” his father said, nodding at him and Falada, offering a thin, close-lipped smile. “If only you applied yourself to your studies as much as you apply yourself to racing.”

“I am applying myself to my studies,” Laurent told him in perfect Akielon.

His father’s mouth twitched. “Clearly. But my son…I just worry. You are so like your mother, and I cannot help but fear that one day, you might…” _Meet the same end as she did,_ was what he meant.

Laurent could not help but feel guilty at his father’s words before realizing he did not have anything to feel guilty about. Though his father’s brand of people-speaking was far different than his uncle’s, it was still very powerful. “I am always careful, Father,” Laurent assured him. “And you can be certain that I will never jump fences again.”

His father nodded again, conceding, and left him to return Falada to his stall and deliver the apples to the gluttonous mare.

*

Laurent gave the apples to the mare, who ate them all within minutes, nosing at Laurent’s palm and whuffing her thanks into it. Laurent gave two apples to Falada, too, and brushed him down, combing out the tangles in his mane and tail and removing the dust and sweat of the race from his glossy white pelt. He talked to him aloud as he did so, knowing that although Falada could not understand his spoken words, they calmed him. Laurent sang him one of the few songs he remembered his mother singing to him – one about the forest singing songs of its own.

When the song was almost over, Falada stilled, lifting his head. _A man,_ he said, nostrils flared. _Coming here, to you._

Laurent stood warily beside Falada, and was not entirely shocked when his uncle came around the corner, eying the stalls with distaste. Falada’s white hair swirled in the air alongside golden dust motes, and his uncle looked out of place amidst the warm light and sleepy horses. Laurent stayed close to Falada. _My sire’s brother,_ he told the horse. _He is a bad man._

His uncle made as if to open Falada’s stall and Falada stomped his hoof loudly, startling the man. Laurent waited for his uncle to say whatever insult he had come to deliver. He did not have to wait long.

“Nephew,” his uncle said, as if the word was synonymous to _rat_ or _worm_. “What a performance that was. I might be proud, if I didn’t know you cheated.”

Laurent rolled his eyes. “Says my uncle, who has only ever employed honest methods to achieve his ends.”

His uncle did not react to the jibe. “You were such a sweet child. Willful, but sweet. I had such hopes for you, nephew; I gave you a chance to fulfill those hopes. But you squandered it. And for what? To continue your mother’s twisted, heathen legacy.” He stepped closer, up against the gate, ignoring Falada’s alarmed snort. “That’s right, Laurent. I know what you are. I know you are as cursed and unnatural as she was, and believe you can speak with beasts better than with your fellow man. It’s sick. Who would trust a prince who holds conversations with horses and canaries?”

Laurent’s mouth twisted furiously. “How dare you call _me_ unnatural, uncle, after what you’ve done. After what you’ve tried to do. One of us is truly sick and cursed, and it is not me.” He turned back to Falada, trying to hide the tremor of his hand in long, steady brushstrokes. “How is your insomnia faring, by the way? It must be difficult to sleep without the belladonna in your tea.”

His uncle drew in a sharp, furious breath. Laurent could feel the anger radiating off of him, and then he felt it fade and dissipate entirely. Laurent was not the only one who was good at hiding his emotions. In an eerily even voice, his uncle said, “Someday you’ll get what you deserve. Good things come to those who wait.”

And with that ultimatum, he left.

It was delivered officially two years later.

*

Laurent was in the library with Aimeric when Auguste told him the news.

He and Aimeric hadn’t exactly made amends, but a kind of uneasy truce existed between them, if only so that they could share the library without verbally tearing each other apart. Lately, Laurent had extended the olive branch to help Aimeric learn Akielon, which he had taken a sudden interest in. Aimeric was in the middle of practicing Akielon imperatives when Auguste burst in, striding over to Laurent in a hurry.

“Brother,” he said, breathless, “a word.” He glanced at Aimeric. “Now.”

Bewildered, Laurent let Auguste tug him to his feet. Aimeric scowled. “Something had better be on fire,” he groused.

Auguste set his jaw. “Something is,” he said. “Marlas. The Akielons have taken Delfeur.”

*

Laurent took the stairs to his father’s study two at a time, heart racing – it had finally happened. War had come – no, Akielos had brought it. Auguste told him, in a summarized version, of the Akielons’ unstoppable advance through the province, burning villages and cutting down any opposition with ease. They must have been building up their military in secret, Auguste said, because reports said it had almost doubled, and they had taken Marlas with few Akielon losses. On the Veretian side, it had been a massacre.

Laurent struggled to take his mother’s old words to heart – if they were not monsters and savages, how could they do something like this? Weren’t Akielons supposed to be honorable? And yet they had ravaged the land and stolen it from Vere in a flood of blood. And, Auguste said, they had plans to continue northward.

When they entered the king’s study, it was already full to the brim. The king looked up as they entered, and stood, his expression very grim indeed. Their uncle and the Council were present, all equally sober. Laurent did not exactly know why he was there.

“My sons,” the king said. “It seems our age of peace has ended. I had hoped you would not have to see the horrors of war, but perhaps it was inevitable.”

“We must meet this insult head-on,” Councillor Audin interjected. “Those Akielon brutes cannot be allowed to take whatever they wish without consequences!”

His uncle coughed lightly. “Excuse me, Councillor, but it would be unwise to treat the Akielons like naughty children. As much as we despise them, they are a powerful nation with a formidable military force. So formidable, in fact, that they outnumber ours three to one. Unless we are to enlist every able-bodied man in the country –”

“Which we will _not_ ,” Auguste muttered.

Their uncle inclined his head. “As the Crown Prince says, that would not be ideal. So our only other option is to try to form a treaty and compromise with them to avoid further invasion and slaughter.”

“They will see us as cowards!” Councillor Mathe cried. “They will demand more than we are willing to give!”

“Perhaps,” said his uncle. “And perhaps not, if we offer them a lasting peace. Not even the Akielons want a state of constant war.”

Councillor Herode, an elderly man with spectacles, leaned forward with a frown. “King Theomedes is a warmonger, you said this yourself. What changed your mind?”

His uncle shrugged. “I prefer to be optimistic and at least try the bloodless choice before starting a war that might mean Vere’s ruin. For all their brutish violence, Akielons do not understand deceit and will meet with us peacefully under a white flag.” Councillors started to object and he raised his hand. “Not a flag of surrender. A flag of armistice. I suggest we hold a peace summit at Marlas to persuade the Akielons that war would hurt them as much as it would hurt us.”

“I agree,” the king said. The Councillors muttered amongst themselves. “I will not be known as the ruler who let Vere fall to Akielos. This is the best option.”

Slowly, the murmurs of assent grew. They took a vote. They voted yes.

Laurent still did not know why he was there.

“It is decided,” the king declared. “We will send a missive to Akielos and depart for the border in a week’s time to make peace, or at least try to. Any final objections?”

The room was silent.

“Good. You are dismissed.”

The Councillors and his uncle left. Laurent stood uncertainly beside Auguste.

“Laurent,” the king said, startling him. His father rarely used his name, for some reason. “Thank you for bringing him, Auguste. You may leave.” Auguste nodded, and did. Laurent did not know where this was going, and lingered in the corner, beside the large map hanging on the wall.

“Father,” Laurent said. “Am…am I in trouble?”

The king looked at him sharply. “No, you are not. Though perhaps you should be. Your uncle tells me you have quite a way with animals, though he is prone to exaggeration.”

“I am sorry, Father,” Laurent said.

The king looked irritated. “That’s hardly important. Your mother was odd like that, too, and I managed to overlook it. She had other, better qualities – qualities which you also possess, my son. And as she is no longer here to offer her council, I wondered if you might offer yours.”

“To you?” Laurent squeaked. “But…shouldn’t Auguste –”

“Auguste has a good mind for battle strategy and supply routes. But you, Laurent – you have a mind for creating solutions, for seeing possible outcomes long before they occur. And I know you have learned much of Akielos, even if it is only from books. So tell me – do you think this peace summit is a mistake, or not?”

Laurent opened his mouth, then closed it. “I think…” He bit his lip.

“Well? Spit it out, boy.”

“I think it is a good idea in theory,” he offered. “I think the Akielons are likely to recognize that invading Vere further is not worth the losses on both sides, and I think an agreement is likely to be made. I just…I don’t know if the agreement will last, Father. And if it does…I mean no disrespect to Uncle, but I fear that he might offer the Akielons something they cannot refuse.”

“And that is a bad thing because…?”

Laurent looked down. “It is just a feeling, Father. That perhaps he will trick them or give them something you do not want him to.”

The king considered this impassively. Then he said, “While I do not encourage your uncle’s frequent use of deception, there are few things I would not give up to save my country. Would you not agree, Laurent?”

Laurent could think of several things he would not be willing to give up for his country, but he just nodded. “I agree, Father.”

The king tapped his desk. “I will think on what you have said, Laurent. You are free to go.”

Laurent turned to leave, still half in shock.

Then the king added, “I heard you are speaking to Aimeric again. I’m glad. He is a fine young man, and it is good to see you getting along with him like you did as children. It is important to have loyal friends in times like these, my son.”

“Yes, Father,” Laurent said. “It is.”

*

Laurent was not invited to the peace summit. Neither was Auguste – he was sent off on a separate journey to meet with Vaskian emissaries in an attempt to secure allies if the summit went badly. It seemed like a strange side trip to Laurent, but he was in no place to question his father’s decisions. When the summit had returned, Auguste had not, though he sent Laurent occasional letters so Laurent knew that at least he had not been mauled by clanswomen.

That was the only good news of the day. The rest of it was a nightmare. The Councillors who had attended the summit avoided eye contact with Laurent as he came out to meet them, and the king’s head was bowed slightly as he dismounted. His uncle was the only one who looked utterly satisfied, and that was never a good thing. Laurent went to the king.

“How did it go?” he asked.

The king sighed. “Let us discuss this somewhere private, my son.” Yet as he led Laurent inside the palace and up to his study, Laurent’s uncle accompanied them. That was the first warning sign. The second was the sorrow in the king’s eyes as he sat down heavily at his desk. Laurent sat down in the chair opposite him, his uncle remained standing off to the side, arms folded, the epitome of smugness.

Laurent looked from one man to the other. “What happened?” he repeated, more forcefully.

The king still hesitated. “You must understand, Laurent, that sometimes we must make sacrifices in war, to make peace. Very difficult sacrifices. I wish there had been another way, truly.”

Laurent swallowed. “Father. What did you do?”

“You are seventeen now, Laurent. You are practically a man.”

Panicking, seeing the smugness on his uncle’s face, Laurent whispered urgently, “Father. Father, what did you promise to the Akielons?”

The king exhaled audibly. “You.”

Laurent stood up, the chair scraping raucously as he stumbled backward. “ _What_?”

The king sighed again. “King Theomedes demanded insurance to know that the peace would be kept between Akielos and Vere for a long time. His son, Crown Prince Damianos, is nineteen and agreed to marriage with you to secure the alliance –”

“He agreed?” Laurent said. “He agreed, and yet you did not even think to invite me? You did not even think to let me have a say in my own marriage –”

“It is not your marriage,” his uncle interrupted sharply. “It is the marriage of Vere and Akielos. And you would have ruined the summit with your unchecked rudeness and inappropriate remarks; your father knows that as well as I do.”

“You will have a high position in the Akielon court,” the king tried, his magic with words trying to worm its way into Laurent’s head, to make him agree, to make him see that what his father had done was somehow right. “This union is the first step towards an alliance between our countries –”

“A high position,” Laurent echoed. “Under the Crown Prince, you mean?”

The king pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Laurent, there is no need to be obscene.”

“Oh, but I’m practically man now, aren’t I?” Laurent spat.

“The Prince Consort of Akielos is not a title taken lightly, nephew,” his uncle added.

Laurent whirled on him, hands curled into fists. “This is your fault!” he accused. “It was you who suggested it, wasn’t it? You made them think there was no other way, no other choice but to send me away and offer me up to them –”

“Laurent!” the king thundered, and Laurent fell silent, flushed and furious and frightened despite himself. “That is quite enough. I do not think you fully grasp how much progress we made during the summit. In exchange for the arranged marriage and several adjusted trade routes, King Theomedes has agreed to make Delfeur a neutral province, co-ruled by Vere and Akielos. Marlas will be similarly co-occupied. It is a compromise, the one we hoped for.”

“You hoped to send your own son away to a barbarian’s bed?”

“What do you want me to do?” the king retorted. “You want me to coddle you and feel sorry for you? This kind of behavior is unacceptable. I will not have you questioning me. The decision has been made, it is your choice whether you will make peace with it as I have or fight it every step of the way.”

Laurent stared at them both with an expression of utter betrayal. “This is why you sent Auguste away,” he said faintly. “Because he would have stopped you. He would have shown you there was another way.”

The king’s jaw worked. “I sent Auguste to Vask to arrange a marriage of his own. He will be home with his betrothed Daughter of the Empire in time to see you off on your journey to Akielos next week.”

“Next week?” Laurent said. “But…but that’s so…”

“The journey to Ios will take at least two months,” the king said, standing. “You must leave Vere before the snows come, to ensure your safety. The preparations have already been made. You will travel with a small entourage organized by your uncle.”

Laurent opened his mouth.

“And if you question your uncle’s competence in such matters again, I will move the departure date to this week,” the king warned. Laurent lowered his head. The king’s voice softened. “Laurent, listen to me. I know this is not what you wanted. It is not what I wanted, either, but it is what is best for Vere.”

 _But what about for me?_ Laurent thought pitifully, though he did not say it for fear of being shouted at again.

“It is not the end of the world, my son. Far worse matches have been made, I assure you. Prince Damianos seems to be a fine young man,” the king said. “For an Akielon.” He chuckled. Laurent did not laugh or look up.

“May I be dismissed,” he said, staring listlessly at a spider crawling across the tiled floor.

“Laurent…”

“Oh, let the boy go,” his uncle said. “He just needs time to sulk and come to terms with it.”

The king turned away. “Fine. As long as he does, eventually, come to terms with it. Dismissed.”

Laurent slammed the door on his way out.

*

Everything happened so quickly after that.

Laurent’s entourage was officially gathered, a group of about thirty men including his uncle, several guards and soldiers hand-picked by him, the physician Paschal, Laurent’s personal guards Jord and Lazar, and, to his surprise, Aimeric. “So you have a friend with you,” the king explained. Laurent appreciated the thought, but what he really wanted was for Auguste to accompany him.

That, of course, was impossible, seeing as how Auguste returned with a wedding on the horizon and a whole new set of responsibilities. He was furious when the king told him what had been decided at the summit, and it was somewhat satisfying to see the perfect Crown Prince flat-out yell at the king, waving hands and curses and all. His Vaskian princess, Eliska, was very proud of the display, and later she told Laurent that she thought his father was a cowardly fool (in much more colorful terms). Although Laurent appreciated it, he knew that the king truly thought he had no choice but to send Laurent to Akielos. Unlike his brother, the king was not a cruel man, but he saw the world in shades of black and white and, as he had told Laurent, would do almost anything for the good of Vere.

So it was that he and Auguste spent one last week together, pretending as best they could that everything was fine and that Laurent wasn’t going to be sent hundreds of miles away to wed a complete stranger who would likely see Laurent as little more than a pretty Veretian to parade about on his arm. Akielos was in many ways still an enemy country, and though his father and uncle waxed poetic about the start of a great alliance, Laurent knew he was not going to be welcomed there.

Auguste fretted incessantly. He gave Laurent a dagger made of finely-wrought silver with a black leather sheathe, small and light enough to tuck into his belt or his boot. “If anyone tries to touch you, don’t hesitate to use it,” he told him firmly.

“Except my husband?” Laurent replied, and wished he hadn’t when he saw the expression on Auguste’s face.

“I will drag you away from Ios myself if I have to,” Auguste said, squeezing his hand. “I promise, Laurent. Alliance be damned.”

Eliska, though not nearly as maternal as Auguste, did her fair share of fretting too. She taught Laurent how to injure a man horribly with his bare hands, how to escape a chokehold, and how to put someone in a chokehold. It was all very alarming, and very educational. She patted him on the head like a dog after each lesson and told him to “bite the Akielon’s cock off if that doesn’t work.”

Laurent sincerely hoped he would never have to do that. It sounded unpleasant for both parties.

The day before he was to leave, Eliska gave him one more thing. Not a lesson, but a tangible gift, wrapped carefully in soft vellum. When Laurent unwrapped it, he did not quite know what it was.

Eliska lifted the necklace’s silver chain up, fastening it around his neck. It was unadorned, except for the tiny, teardrop-shaped glass pendant, which rested squarely upon Laurent’s chest. The pendant, which was really more of a vial, was stained a deep red color inside.

“It is a Vaskian protection amulet,” she told him, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “It holds your brother’s blood.”

Laurent resisted the urge to rip it off his neck. “Um,” he said, eloquently.

She folded her arms. “It is just a few drops. Do not faint.”

“You put my brother’s blood in a necklace?” Laurent yelped.

Eliska rolled her eyes. “This way you are close to him always, see? My mother gave me one when your brother brought me here. See?” She drew out a similar chain, but golden and with a larger pendant, also red. “In Vask, blood is sacred. It connects us. For women, blood means life and fertility. For men, blood means death and sacrifice. For us all, it means family.”

Laurent held the necklace up to the light. It was still rather macabre, but also...oddly touching. “Thank you,” he told her. “I…would like to visit Vask someday.”

She patted him on the head. “You do not have the size to breed great warriors like your brother,” she said. “But you have a good heart and are destined for greatness like he is.”

“Greatness?” Laurent sighed and shook his head. “I doubt I’ll find greatness in the Akielon’s bed.”

Eliska’s eyes glinted. “Then look elsewhere,” she said.

*

Laurent did not sleep the night before he left. Near midnight, he snuck into Auguste’s apartments and let his older brother hold him tight as he wept for everything he was about to lose. Auguste had run out of comforting words – Laurent could feel the dampness of his brother’s face against his hair, and they stayed like that, tangled in their own helpless sorrow, until dawn came.

His entourage was waiting at the palace gates, with his uncle at the head, and Laurent did not give him the pleasure of seeing how this ordeal had affected him. He did not give anyone that pleasure. Laurent strode past his own father with nonchalance bordering cool disdain, and offered Auguste only a courteous nod. Any more than that, and Laurent was certain he would break down again. Auguste inclined his head in kind, understanding Eliska blinked at Laurent, her dark eyes shining, and tapped her chest where the amulet lay.

Falada had been fitted with a new saddle, gleaming gold in the early autumn light. Laurent had outright refused to be crammed into a carriage for weeks on end like a caged bird. A caged canary. He shivered, and mounted Falada. Beside him, his uncle’s gray charger shifted nervously. His uncle smiled at him. Behind Laurent, Aimeric sat primly atop his brown mare. Laurent felt trapped between them.

 _You are upset,_ Falada said; not an accusation but simply a stated fact.

 _I do not wish to leave,_ Laurent said.

Falada gave a great sigh, and Laurent knew he did not want to, either.

Besides the thirty men in Laurent’s entourage and his family, a small group of Councillors and courtiers had gathered. Perhaps there would have been more if it had not been so early, but Laurent was glad for the lack of crowds. He did not know if he could handle that, right now.

The king stepped forward. “My son,” he said, extending a hand. “Prince Laurent, Second Heir of Vere, future Prince Consort of Akielos. May your journey be safe and easy, and may you return to us someday in good health and happiness.”

Laurent did not know if he was expected to reply. He did not.

The king came closer, and lifted a golden circlet to Laurent’s head. Laurent hesitated, then bowed it, three sapphires resting like cold droplets upon his brow as the circlet fell into place. His neck prickled with goose bumps.

“Let all who see him know that he is my son and our prince.” His father’s voice carried through the courtyard, making the crowd shudder and nod in a way Laurent’s voice never could. “Farewell, Laurent. Send word when you reach Akielos. We will be there for the wedding.”

Laurent looked out at the small sea of faces, lifted up towards him, and wished his mother was among them. If she was, he would not be here.

Auguste’s eyes were bright with tears. To Laurent’s surprise, so were his father’s.

He tried to memorize their faces, the sad tilt of their mouths and the sorry furrow of their brows. He tried to tell himself he would never forget them, the sound of their voices, their laughter. He tried to tell himself that he would see them again, soon.

But as the horses started off and the gates closed behind them, Laurent could not shake the feeling that it was going to be a very long time before he saw home again.


	3. Pecking Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the sweet comments! They brighten my day and make me smile! (and churn chapters out faster, haha!)
> 
> Laurent will reach Ios in Chapter 4, and he'll meet Damen FINALLY in Chapter 5. Stay tuned! We're finally gettin' into the ACTION.

The entourage moved at an irritatingly slow pace – Laurent ached to run and he knew Falada did too. Then again…the faster they went, the sooner they would reach Akielos and its dreaded barbarian prince. So Laurent settled with walking. They spent the first night at Chastillon, the last castle Laurent would see for a long while. His uncle went off hunting with several of the guards, including a very large man with greasy black hair named Govart who Laurent did not like one bit. 

After Laurent had made certain Falada was well cared for, he found himself alone with Aimeric, who had no interest in hunting and had already demanded personal pastries from the resident cooks. Laurent found him sitting on one of the terraces with a fresh plate of scones, gazing out to the south, towards the distant, dark line of the forest that marked the border of Akielos. 

Laurent leaned against the railing beside him. “What’s Akielos like?” he asked.

Aimeric glanced up at him, eyes narrowed. “I’ve only been there two times.”

“Two times more than I have,” Laurent countered. 

Aimeric shrugged artfully, brushing crumbs off his hands. “It’s just how you’d expect,” he said. “Rustic. Homely. Just like the people.” He paused. “No, that’s not quite true. Akielons are brutish and simple, but they aren’t ugly. Always showing off their dark skin and bulging muscles.” 

“Bulging muscles,” Laurent repeated, skeptical.

Aimeric laughed. “You’ll see, Your Highness. Akielons take great pride in their athleticism; spear throwing and wrestling and whatnot. Oh, and fucking.”

Laurent did not justify that with a response.

Aimeric continued anyway. “They don’t share Veretian dislike of bastardry; half the country probably doesn’t know who sired them. Even the king’s elder son, Kastor, is a bastard.”

“The king has a mistress?” Laurent asked. 

“Had,” Aimeric corrected. “Like the queen, she’s long dead. But I suspect Theomedes still fucks someone; I doubt Akielons could go a month without a bed partner. Back when the country had slavery, they had slaves specifically trained for that purpose. And Akielons are the ones who invented chalis, that drug they give to whores. Vile, isn’t it?”

“Utterly,” Laurent said, making no attempt to hide his distaste. “No wonder the Crown Prince consented to marriage with me. Nobody would stop him from fucking whomever else he likes. He could just ignore me and nobody would bat an eyelash.”

“Oh, he’ll fuck you,” Aimeric said cheerfully. “You’re just his type.”

Laurent blanched. “What?”

Aimeric picked up another scone, holding it between thumb and forefinger and studying it with a smirk. “You didn’t know? Yes, my father went to the summit and said Damianos had a young woman with him, fair-haired and blue-eyed just like you. The spitting image of you, really, if you were taller and curvier and prettier. Lady Jokaste. It seems you’ll have some competition, Laurent.”

“I don’t want to compete for anything related to that Akielon brute,” Laurent snapped, refusing even to say the Prince’s name. He hadn’t even met Damianos, and already he hated him. He recalled Eliska’s fighting techniques with relish – Damianos could try to touch him, but he wouldn’t get far.

Aimeric looked…surprised. “I see,” he said, blinking thoughtfully at the scone. “Well…if it makes you feel better, he did seem entirely enamored with her, and I expect he sees the marriage as little more than a good political move.”

“For his sake, I hope so,” Laurent muttered. “I hope so.”

*

They moved across Vere at a faster pace than on their first day of travel, to escape the snows threatening to come down from the north. Laurent thought it would have been easier if they’d just waited until spring and then left, but his uncle kept going on and on about how the matter was of utmost urgency. “The matter” being getting Laurent out of Vere, of course. Laurent tried to look on the bright side – at least he would be hundreds of miles away from his uncle. At least Damianos had another lover to distract himself with. At least Aimeric would be with him and away from his uncle…two birds with one stone. At least he would have Falada.

As they rode, Laurent talked with Falada intermittently, about the land around them or the entourage or their destination. Conversations with Falada were more like a series of small, disconnected phrases than full discussions, but Laurent took comfort in them all the same.

Falada had taken a liking to Aimeric’s brown mare, and spoke often of her. _He does not give her enough rein,_ Falada would fret. Or, _She misses the old place._ Or, most interestingly, _She has been to the new place before._

Laurent peered at Aimeric’s mare curiously. _Has she? What did she see there?_

Falada nickered to her. The mare snorted softly. _She saw many men in shiny pelts. Large men. Like stallions._ Falada tossed his head. _Like me!_

Laurent rolled his eyes. _Focus._

 _She saw…white stone. High cliffs. The sea._ Falada paused to hear her again. _And trees. Many trees. Soon, she says, many trees._ Falada pawed nervously at the earth. _She does not like the trees._

Laurent turned to Aimeric. “How far until we reach the forest?” he asked.

Aimeric gazed at the horizon. “A week or two, I should think. Why, are you suddenly in a hurry to get to your Akielon prince?”

Laurent scowled, and kept riding. Aimeric laughed behind him.

They stopped at inns each night to rest. Sometimes they were the only occupants, and the entourage would fill the tavern below with loud talk and boisterous song. More than once, the guards would offer Laurent a drink or two, and always he would refuse, preferring to return to his room above. Unexpectedly, Aimeric often also declined to join them and stayed with Laurent, reading a book or simply listening to the men below.

“You can join them, you know,” Laurent told him on one such night, perturbed by Aimeric’s uncharacteristic silence and pensive expression. “I’m not stopping you.”

“Oh,” Aimeric said, not looking at him, “I know, Your Highness. But we royals must stick together, mustn’t we?”

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “Royals? You are a noble’s son, Aimeric, nothing more.”

“Right,” Aimeric said. “A slip of the tongue, Your Highness. It won’t happen again.” 

Laurent watched him carefully, but Aimeric just picked up his book, and said nothing more. 

*

Vere ended with softly rolling hills and lightly wooded valleys split by fast-flowing rivers that the horses picked their way cautiously across. Govart joked that they should be grateful of the water while they still had it, because once they crossed the border they wouldn’t be seeing any for a while. Akielos was a dryer land, fertile but warmer and with far less trees than its northern neighbor. With the exception, of course, of the Foloi Forest. 

The forest stretched from the eastern half of the border with Vere to the Akielon province of Thrace, which bordered Kesus, which bordered Ios. Apparently the Akielons had all sorts of myths and legends about the forest and what lived in it, but Veretians dismissed such tales as foolish and agreed only that the forest was vast and formidable. 

Laurent had asked why they weren’t taking the seemingly easier route to the west, along the Akielon coast, but his uncle quickly dismissed it as being too much of a spectacle and ridden with bandits besides. “The forest is safer, nephew,” he assured. “The Akielons respect it; see it as some kind of sacred ground. We won’t be bothered there.”

So it was that at the end of four long weeks, they reached Acquitart, where Laurent had spent many of his childhood days. To the east, the mountains of Vask loomed, to the south, the Foloi Forest. It seemed larger and darker than Laurent had remembered; then again he had not been here for quite some time. The last time had been with his mother, actually. Laurent pushed the memory from his mind.

The caretaker, an old man named Arnoul, watched impassively as the entourage approached the ancient walls of Laurent’s ancestral home. He saw Laurent and smiled, though it was sad and small. Laurent could relate. This was the last bit of Vere he would see for months, possibly years, depending on how tightly his husband held his reins. 

Husband. Laurent shuddered. He did not want to think of that. 

Acquitart was in some ways more familiar than Chastillon, because Laurent knew all its secret passages, its hidden nooks and crannies, its tucked away tower rooms that were thick with dust and cobwebs. So as the barracks turned into a makeshift tavern, and Aimeric retired to his fancy rooms, and his uncle drew up plans to traverse the forest with Govart and another officer, Enguerran; Laurent snuck away.

He found solace in the highest tower room, whose stairs were hidden behind a series of small, easily missed doors and continued upwards for long enough that Laurent was left slightly winded at the top, leaning against the worn stone walls and looking at the round space with a sudden wave of nostalgia. It wasn’t a large space, and most of it was taken up by battered furniture covered in moth-eaten cloths.

The only unclothed furniture was pushed across the room, directly in front of the dark tower window – a small, intricately carved canapé whose upholstery was long past its prime but still soft enough when Laurent sat gingerly upon it. As a child, he had been fascinated by the designs on its wooden frame – his mother had told him they were dryads, female tree spirits. An Akielon myth, he’d later learned. Frowning, Laurent ran a finger over the carved figures, wiping the dust away from their joyful faces and curving bodies. In the dimness, it was hard to see them clearly.

“Ah, there you are.”

Laurent jumped, eyes wide as he lifted his head only to see Paschal standing in the doorway, a large mug in his hands. The faint moonlight cast strange shadows, making his wrinkles stand out so that he appeared much older than he really was. He held the mug out like an offering. Laurent stared.

“Chamomile tea,” Paschal said. “To calm your nerves.”

Laurent drew in a sharp breath, knowing that they were both remembering that night four years ago. There was something sharp in the physician’s eyes, and Laurent inclined his head, making space for him on the canapé. He took the mug. “You did not just search the castle to give me tea,” Laurent said.

Paschal sighed. “No, Your Highness. I also offer you my…counsel.”

Laurent sipped the tea, it was warm and strong and his chilled body was grateful. “I am curious as to what counsel a physician could possibly give to a prince.”

He sighed again, heavier. “Your uncle…” Paschal shook his head. “He is not a good man, Your Highness. You should not trust him.”

Laurent could not help it, he laughed. In the empty tower, it echoed, making it sound more than a bit deranged. Paschal blinked, nonplussed. “If you are only now realizing this, I doubt you have any counsel worth offering me.”

“I have known for years,” Paschal replied, not meeting Laurent’s gaze. “But it was not until you told me of the belladonna that I realized the full extent of it.” Paschal glanced at him, eyes brimming with remorse. “I am a physician, meant to help the hurt, but instead…”

Laurent stopped him right there. “He used you. You didn’t know that he didn’t have insomnia. It’s not…it’s not your fault.”

“I still blame myself, Your Highness,” Paschal said. “I do not know how you escaped him, but if you had not, the guilt would have consumed me.”

“I have not escaped him,” Laurent said with painful honesty. He gestured to their surroundings. “Even now, I hide from him like a scared child.”

Paschal looked at him kindly. “Your uncle is not omnipotent, Your Highness, even if it seems so. He is just a man, and you are a far better one than he is.”

“Being a good man gets you nowhere in Vere,” Laurent retorted.

Paschal smiled. “But we’re not going to Vere, are we?”

Laurent looked out the window, cradling the tea in his hands thoughtfully. “Why, exactly, did you say I could not trust him?”

“You know that well over half the men in this company are loyal to your uncle,” Paschal said, wringing his hands. “And I fear…I fear they may be planning something. I overheard part of the meeting your uncle was having with Govart and Enguerran – Your Highness, they spoke of war between Vere and Akielos.”

“War,” Laurent repeated. “And here I thought the whole purpose of this infernal trip was to make peace.”

“Your uncle has his own agenda, Your Highness,” Paschal warned. “He always does. The sooner we reach Ios, the better.” He stood up and bowed, going to the door. “Be safe, Your Highness.”

“Thank you, Paschal,” Laurent said. “Goodnight.”

Out the window, Laurent could see the forest, an inky swathe of trees in the blue cast of night. Even from the tower Laurent was drawn to it. Overhead, the sky was dark with heavy clouds, the air sharp with the promise of a storm. 

Wind whistled past his cheek, ruffling his hair and stirring up the room’s dust, teasing at the edges of the draped cloths. In the empty tower it made a low, mournful sound, a faint howling that made Laurent shiver and huddle against the steam rising from the tea. The wind split the steam into ribbons of mist, curling warmly across Laurent’s face. The tea lost its warmth.

*

The forest swallowed Laurent’s entourage up easily, drenching them in shadow and faint shifting strips of sunlight that moved with the endless rustle of the trees. The men, who had been boisterous for most of the journey, seemed ill at ease as soon as they reached the forest, quieting and glancing about restlessly, holding the reins too tightly, shifting in their saddles. Some even gripped their sword hilts, so on edge were they. 

Laurent did not understand their discomfort. The forest did not seem dangerous to him, just dark and brooding. It was full of life, much more so than the open plains of Vere – Laurent heard the songs of more birds than he’d ever heard in his life in the towering pines, saw several deer peering nervously at them through the brush; he was even entranced by the buzzing insects, the bumbling bees and graceful butterflies and long trails of hardworking ants. 

Falada was not spooked by the forest either, looking at their surroundings with interest and thoroughly enjoying the thick green grass when they stopped to set up camp that first night. Laurent persuaded the resident horse groom that Falada did not need to be tied up with the other horses, and ignored the guards’ suspicious mumbling and his uncle’s raised eyebrows as the stallion grazed freely around Laurent’s tent, occasionally ambling over to Aimeric’s mare. 

Jord and Lazar set up Laurent’s tent, the only private one except for his uncle’s. Aimeric helped Laurent unpack his sleeping pallet and clothes, and as he was leaving to set up his own pallet, Laurent said, “There is room for another.” 

Aimeric looked up, surprised, and shook his head. “This is your tent, Your Highness. I am fine outside.”

Laurent watched him go with a tightness in his chest. He would bet anything that Aimeric wasn’t going to sleep outside.

Through the paper-thin walls, Laurent could hear Falada moving around. 

_The boy who rides your mare,_ Laurent said. _Did he go into the other tent?_

A pause. _Yes, my Prince._

Laurent exhaled, rubbing his temple and sitting down heavily on his pallet. Falada, sensing his distress, nosed at the canvas near his head. The horse, Laurent knew, did not understand why his uncle was bad, or why Aimeric should not be in his tent. But Falada did understand that his uncle was bad, and that it upset Laurent. That was something.

 _I will not run away,_ Falada assured him, as if to give him a small comfort. It worked, sort of.

 _I know,_ Laurent said. _Neither will I._

*

The journey through the forest passed slowly, but Laurent didn’t mind. As the guards muttered amongst themselves and Aimeric remained strangely quiet, Laurent listened to the sounds of the forest, smiling when he heard the birds chattering above and recognized many of their sounds – they were not unlike the birds in the gardens of Vere. It was like hearing their language spoken with an accent. Besides the birds, there were often skittish deer and curious foxes, quick little squirrels, and, once, wolves.

About a week into the forest, Falada woke Laurent, saying, _Mad wolves. Coming for the camp._

Laurent, half-awake, crawled out of his tent and cried, “Wolves! Rabid wolves!” 

The guards stirred, and Enguerran eyed him with sleepy incredulity. “Wolves? Where?”

Falada told him, and Laurent pointed towards the edge of camp, past the horses who were tossing their heads and prancing against the ropes that held them. Enguerran shook his head but roused the best archers among the guards, and they all peered groggily into the darkness with bows half-raised. There was movement, but it was just an indistinct shadow, and Enguerran continued to shake his head until the shadow leapt towards the first of the horses, a strong, lithe creature with a snarling maw. 

An archer fired, and the shaft caught the wolf in the chest. It fell with a cut-off yelp, and lay still on the ground. The rest of the pack was similarly dispatched. A long silence followed, during which Enguerran looked at Laurent with an expression of bewilderment and a hint of fear.

The next morning the other guards looked at him the same way, and avoided him as they tore down camp, glancing at him warily as if he might leap for them like the wolves had. 

_I thought they would be grateful,_ Laurent told Falada.

Falada snorted. In his opinion, humans never made sense. 

Laurent scolded himself for expecting their reactions to be any different here than they had been in Vere – they still saw beast-speaking as an aberrance, as something to be feared and shunned. They would always see it as that. 

A red-breasted robin chirped at him in passing, and Laurent resolutely ignored it.

*

Several days later, Laurent saw Aimeric chatting and laughing with his uncle as they rode. They were flanked by Govart, Enguerran, and several more of his uncle’s men. Laurent narrowed his eyes, and urged Falada forward, matching pace alongside Aimeric. The conversation and laughter ceased abruptly as he joined them. 

“Have I missed a joke?” Laurent asked, brows raised. 

Aimeric sniffed. “Hardly, Your Highness.”

“It certainly sounded riveting, whatever you were discussing,” Laurent pressed.

His uncle gave him a thin smile. “Nephew, it was a discussion for adults, I’m afraid.”

Laurent struggled to keep his tone even. “Adults, of course. Nevermind that Aimeric is the same age as I am. But then again I’m sure you know that, uncle.”

Aimeric, glaring, turned to him. “Can you not speak civilly for once, Laurent?” he snapped. “Your short temper and clinginess is embarrassing.”

“Says Aimeric,” Laurent retorted, but he got the message, and pulled away, guiding Falada back to the center of the entourage. As he did, Jord pulled up alongside him with a worried expression.

“Your Highness, is everything alright?” he asked.

Laurent sighed, breath whistling out through his teeth. “I’m not certain ‘alright’ is the correct word.”

Lazar pulled up on Laurent’s other side, his brow furrowed. Beside him rode Orlant. “Your uncle is up to something,” Lazar said matter-of-factly. “And that prissy little lordling has no business mouthing off to you like that.”

Jord frowned. “Go easy on Aimeric, he’s just young and impressionable. Who knows what lies the Ambassador spun to make him his lackey.”

Orlant snorted. “Lackey, that’s a good word for ‘em. Your Highness, you’d best watch your back. We don’t know what your uncle’s game is this time, but if there’s trouble, you just get on that stallion of yours and ride straight to Ios.”

“There’s going to be trouble,” Lazar muttered. “I’d bet you anything.”

Jord looked sharply at him. “Let’s hope you’re wrong as usual, Lazar.” He nodded to Laurent. “No matter what happens, Your Highness, we are loyal to you, and we will defend you with our lives.”

“It won’t come to that,” Laurent protested, alarmed. “But I appreciate your loyalty.” He paused, looking once more at the guards surrounding Aimeric and his uncle. “And something tells me you three have far more integrity than my uncle’s men.”

Jord laughed shortly. “That is an understatement, Your Highness.”

“What do you know about them?”

“Well,” Lazar started, “Enguerran is probably the most respectable out of them; he was a general at Ravenel for many years. But it just goes downhill from there.”

“What about Govart?”

Orlant grimaced. “Rumor is that he’s a mercenary, but it’s more than a little suspicious how quickly he managed to rise in the ranks. He’s a sword for hire, so your uncle must have promised him something very valuable in return for his loyalty.”

Lazar wrinkled his nose. “Kindly recall that I was a mercenary myself before joining the Prince’s Guard. Govart is just a criminal who can’t keep it in his pants. Nasty piece of work, and not good news that he’s your uncle’s right-hand man.”

Jord nodded, troubled. “As for the others, Huet, Guymar, Hendric, Rocher…they’re excellent soldiers, but they’re hardly who I would choose to have on my patrol. Guymar and Hendric are notorious warmongers, for one thing. Makes one wonder why they’re here, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Laurent agreed. “I suppose we will learn why, in time.”

Jord and Lazar exchanged glances. Orlant bowed his head. “Yes, Your Highness.”

*

Two weeks into the forest, the entourage found a sizeable stream and immediately set upon it. It had been at least a week since they’d found moving water, and the sweaty, dusty men rushed eagerly at the chance to bathe. Laurent was as filthy as the rest of them, but was given a metal tub in his tent with heated water for him to soak in, apart from the rest. 

In his thin privacy, he let the warm water wash over him, the dust of the road lifting off of his pale skin in a cloudy film. Beneath the surface, his body seemed a fragile and ghostly thing, the wisp of a boy, all long pale limbs and soft golden hair. Laurent did not like to look at it. Instead he focused on the strength in his arms when he lifted himself up and out of the tub, on the flex of his back as he bent down to retrieve his towel.

Laurent emerged from the tent with wet hair that soaked the shoulders of his jacket; he toweled it off absentmindedly and sat beside the fire, waiting for the others to get back from the stream. A movement flickered in the corner of his vision and he jumped, whirling to face it, only to see Govart standing mere feet away, arms crossed and mouth tilted in a strange, satisfied smile. 

“Enjoy your bath, Prince?” he asked, stepping closer. “How is it to bathe in nice warm water in your own little tent?”

“Fine,” Laurent said, narrowing his eyes. 

“Do you like being a prince?” Govart asked.

Laurent held his towel tightly in his lap. “I don’t know. It is what I am. Do you like being a man?” A bastard, is what he wanted to say, but he did not like the glint in Govart’s eyes.

Govart smiled, wide this time, showing his yellowed teeth. He took another step and Laurent flinched back despite himself. “Do you like that I am a man?”

Laurent’s lip curled. “Step back,” he ordered. “Now.”

“What are you going to do, little prince?” Govart simpered. “Insult me?” He reached out towards Laurent.

Laurent stood abruptly, facing him head-on. “If you ever try to touch me again, I will personally cut off all of your fingers, one by one, and shove them down your throat.” 

Govart recoiled, face twisting in revulsion. “Your uncle’s right,” he muttered, “you’re utterly unhinged.” 

Laurent smiled sweetly at him. “No,” he said, “but your knuckles will be if you get any more ideas.”

Govart stalked off and Laurent hid his shaking hands under his towel. 

By the time the others returned, Laurent’s hair was dry and Govart was off sulking somewhere. Aimeric joined Laurent on his log by the fire, his hair turned light brown by the water. “How was your bath?” Laurent asked.

“Cold.”

Laurent frowned. “Oh. I’m…sorry?”

“Oh, don’t strain yourself,” Aimeric snapped. “Wouldn’t want anyone thinking you actually care.”

Laurent stared at him. “I do care,” he said. Aimeric looked at him. “If…if I have somehow upset you…”

“Save it, Laurent,” Aimeric interrupted.

Laurent looked down at his feet. “I…think of you as my friend,” he murmured. “Please tell me if something is wrong.”

Aimeric exhaled, and touched Laurent’s shoulder, standing and shaking his head. “It’s too late,” he said. “It’s too late, Your Highness.”

*

Less than a week later, Laurent went into his tent and found Aimeric holding the crown his father had given him, holding it up to his own head as if to see if it would fit. It did.

“Aimeric,” Laurent said, his voice coming out as startled and off-balance as he felt.

Aimeric nearly dropped the crown. “Your Highness,” he said casually, turning to Laurent, crown still in his hands. 

“What are you doing?” Laurent asked, more confused than angry. 

“Just admiring your pretty things,” Aimeric said, setting the crown back down on the chest of clothes. “My eyes are not as blue as yours, but the sapphires give the illusion that they are.” Laurent was silent. Aimeric tilted his head to the side. “You’re mad at me. You don’t want your treasures sullied by my hands, do you?”

“I don’t care about that,” Laurent said, shaking his head, “but you’re acting so oddly, what’s wrong?”

Aimeric laughed; the sound was harsh and snide. “The Prince accuses _me_ of acting oddly. What hypocrisy. Yes, Laurent, perhaps I am acting oddly, but at least I don’t treat my horse like a confidante. At least I don’t pretend I’m better than everyone else; at least I don’t pretend I’m cold and untouchable because that’s the only way people will respect me. At least I don’t constantly complain about going to Akielos to be given the third-highest royal title there, all because I’m afraid of letting anyone bed me.”

Laurent flushed. Now he was angry. “I’m not _afraid_ ,” he hissed. “I am upset to be leaving the only home I have ever known, sent to a foreign country, to marry a stranger, without having any choice at all in the matter! That is hardly unreasonable!”

Aimeric snickered. “Oh, it’s not as if being the Akielon Crown Prince’s consort would be terribly difficult. All you really have to do is look pretty and roll over for him once a night. Or several times a night, if the rumors are to be believed.”

Laurent smiled thinly at him. “I expect you would know all about that, wouldn’t you, Aimeric?”

Aimeric blanched. “I don’t know what you’re –”

“You’re still in his bed,” Laurent said. “You still don’t see how he’s using you, how he’s _sick_ , and it’s _wrong_ –” 

“No,” Aimeric snapped, “you’re sick, Laurent; you’re wrong. You belong in an asylum, not a castle. You don’t deserve your birthright, you don’t deserve to marry Damianos, you don’t deserve to wear this crown on your head. All I have ever wanted is what you have, and all you ever wanted was to sit by the swan pond and ride your ponies. It is not _fair_. I am better at being you than you are, better than you will ever be. We are not friends, Laurent. You don’t have any friends, especially not here.”

Laurent took a measured breath; in, out. “Sleeping with my uncle has really gone to your head, hasn’t it, Aimeric? You’re not a prince. You will never be a prince; you will never be anything other than the last son of an unpopular lord and my uncle’s personal whore.”

Aimeric slapped him across the face. Laurent did not react at all.

“Get out of my tent,” Laurent said, tone still cool and unflinching. “Go and cry to my uncle; I don’t care. But I outrank him, and I certainly outrank you, so there is nothing either of you can do. Nothing.”

Aimeric stared at him, his face blotchy and eyes bright with shame and anger. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, Your Highness,” he swore. “Let’s see if your words can save you then.”

He left the tent, and left Laurent standing there alone, his shoulders slumping and his chest filled with the heaviness of regret. Aimeric had always been willful, stubborn like he was. But this…this was different. Something was off about Aimeric, and Laurent had no doubt that his uncle had a hand in it. Laurent could not shake off his uneasiness about the whole exchange, about Aimeric’s warnings – were they empty threats, or something more? Laurent had no way of knowing.

He sat down on his pallet and put his head in his hands. The motion made the pendant around his neck slip free from where it was tucked under his shirt, and Laurent looked at it from the cracks between his fingers with a lump in his throat. The dried drops of Auguste’s blood were bright in the golden candlelight. Slowly, Laurent lowered his hands and held the pendant in his palm, the glass faintly warm from his skin. 

Laurent wished Auguste was here. If he was here, he would know what to do. All Laurent knew was that he was very far from home, he had just lost his closest friend, and something terrible was coming.

*

Four weeks had passed since they’d traded the familiar landscape of Vere for the mysterious Akielon forest, and if the guards had been on edge before, now they were absolutely agitated. The uncomfortable tension reached a peak one particularly humid and unpleasantly hot afternoon, during which Laurent’s uncle called for an early halt. As the grumbling guards set up camp in a small clearing, Falada complained that there was not enough water, and Laurent sensed he was exhausted after so many days of endless riding at a slogging pace. 

So Laurent walked Falada through the thicket of evergreens, following the distant sounds of a stream. It was farther than he’d thought, and when they reached it he realized with a prickle of unease that he could not see the camp anymore. But they were not lost; Falada had never led him astray, so as the horse dipped his head to drink from the burbling brook, Laurent knelt and cupped his hands, scooping up water to bring to his chapped lips and smoothing his wet hand across the back of his neck, easing the sweltering heat if only for a little while.

Suddenly Falada froze, raising his head and swiveling his ears around, dark eyes wide and alert. _Something is happening, my Prince,_ he said. 

Just then, there was a shout from the camp. Falada’s ears flicked back, but his thirst was greater than his fear, so he lowered his head again and continued to drink. Laurent, on the other hand, moved carefully through the thicket that separated him from the camp, keeping as low to the ground as possible and listening carefully. He was wary at being separated from Falada, but even warier of what had caused the shout.

There was some kind of argument taking place. When Laurent peered through the branches, he could make out slivers of it – his uncle, sitting cool and poised on a stone with Jord, Lazar, Orlant, and several other guards standing stiffly across from him, hands on sword hilts and faces twisted with disgust. Paschal was standing off to the side with them. Behind Laurent’s uncle stood the rest of the men, the majority of the men – his uncle’s men, including Govart and Enguerran.

And, curled very unsubtly against his uncle’s side, sat Aimeric. He was wearing Laurent’s crown. 

“Ambassador, you expect us to accept this?” Jord snapped, voice ringing out across the camp. “You fuck boys, everyone knows that – but here, now? With _him_?”

Laurent’s uncle smiled politely. “There is no need to be so crude. Aimeric is not a boy. He is as old as our own Prince, in fact.”

“Aimeric could still rule better than him, though,” Enguerran said, and his uncle’s men laughed.

“Prince Aimeric!” some of the men chanted, scaring the birds in the treetops, some of them drawing their swords. Aimeric smiled smugly. Laurent’s uncle did not smile at all, but said quietly, “All hail Prince Aimeric.”

Despite the blazing sun, Laurent was suddenly very cold. The pieces were falling into place, and the picture they created was a very ugly one.

Orlant voiced his fears. “Is that what this is about?” he said, horrified. “You plan to dispose of the rightful prince and replace him with a fraud?”

Dispose. Laurent clutched a tree branch. Kill. They were going to kill him. Twisted as his uncle was, Laurent hadn’t thought he would ever go this far…and _Aimeric_ was to replace him, but only as a puppet with his uncle tugging at the strings. Laurent had tried to warn Aimeric he was being used, but what did Aimeric care in the face of the power Laurent’s uncle had promised him? And he would play the part well, Laurent knew. Too well. His gut twisted painfully.

His uncle stood. “Fraud? Royalty is not a right, it is not something that should be taken for granted. Rulers should be chosen by the people, not the family they were born into. That being said, Aimeric is the son of a lord. He is hardly unfit to rule. He has always been more responsible than my poor, deranged nephew, who always shirked his princely duties in favor of getting into trouble and pretending that he could speak with beasts.” A murmur went through the guards on both sides. Such was the power of people-speaking. Laurent’s hands clenched into fists. 

“So much wasted talent spent on delving into dark, heathen magic. He has no sense of self-preservation; how could he possibly be expected to rule the lives of others? Why, he is so unbalanced that a marriage between him and Damianos might drive Vere and Akielos to war again – he is prone to fits, outbursts, violent tendencies. He was riding with his mother the day she died, you know – he dared her to race him, even knowing her own sickly disposition.” The men murmured again, louder, more uncertain; even angrily. Laurent had lost his voice, it stuck and caught in his throat helplessly. He could do nothing but watch his uncle turn these men against him, against their own Prince, in favor of his uncle’s imposter.

But not all were convinced. Paschal was frowning, his eyes bright with worry. Jord drew his sword. “This is treason,” he said. “Treason against your own family, Ambassador.”

His uncle shrugged, as if brushing off a fly. “It is what is best for Vere,” he said, lying through his teeth. “It would be a mistake to let Laurent anywhere near a throne.”

Aimeric cut in. “All of you know just how petty and callous he is, don’t lie. Laurent sees this entire journey as a nuisance and told me personally he wanted nothing to do with Damianos. He is so selfish he would cast aside this opportunity for peace and prosperity just to avoid sharing a bed with an Akielon.”

“You are mad,” Lazar snapped. “Prince Laurent is none of those things. And he’ll have you all brought to justice when he finds out your plans.”

“We’ll see,” said Laurent’s uncle. “Where is he?”

“By the stream,” someone said, and two guards ran to where Falada was grazing. Laurent’s heart pounded. He could not get to Falada now, not with his uncle’s men between them.

 _Falada, can you come to me?_ he tried, but Falada was too far away to hear him. Against his chest, the pendant seemed cold. In that moment, Laurent did not feel protected by it at all. 

“Prince, do what I told you!” Orlant shouted towards where Falada grazed.

_If there’s trouble, you just get on that stallion of yours and ride straight to Ios._

As slowly and silently as he could, Laurent turned and backed away, being careful not to step on any twigs or piles of pine needles. He just had to make it to the thicket, and then he would be hidden, then he could run to Falada and call to him without being seen. Just a little further.

“There he is!” Aimeric cried, pointing. 

Laurent glanced over his shoulder. Govart was jogging towards him. Orlant cried out and tried to intercept him, but halfway there a bloody sword point burst through his chest. His face, frozen in shock, crumpled as the killer tugged the blade out. He fell to the ground, dead in a puddle of his own blood. Behind him stood Guymar with his dripping blade. Guymar turned to the next man who came to Laurent’s aid.

Laurent stumbled backwards, finding it difficult to breathe, and ran for his life. 

There was a man close behind him, large and heavy from the way he smashed through the undergrowth, and Laurent knew it was Govart, knew because his uncle called, “Kill him, I don’t care what else you do as long as he ends up dead!” Laurent hair caught in a thorn bush and he yanked it free, pain stinging in his scalp, quickly overshadowed by the adrenaline singing through his veins as Govart’s hand grasped for him, a slice of wind past his shoulder. 

_Falada,_ Laurent called, desperately, _Falada, please._ But there was no reply. Maybe they had killed him, too. _My Prince._ Falada's last words to him echoed hollowly in his ears.

The thumps of Govart’s boots echoed Laurent’s own heart, but they were growing faster, gaining on him. Lungs burning, Laurent pushed himself faster, dazedly thinking that it was a good thing he’d forced Auguste to teach him how to fight, because without the stamina he’d gained from that, Govart would have caught him already. But he would never be able to beat Govart in hand-to-hand combat. He was unarmed and exhausted, and the only thing keeping him running was sheer terror.

Then he heard Govart grunt, heard a thump as he tripped, and maybe Eliska’s amulet worked after all because at the same time Laurent heard the sound of hooves to his right. The trees parted and Laurent saw it was none other than Aimeric’s brown mare, who must have escaped in the chaos of the fight – riderless, unsaddled, cantering, with her rope halter frayed and cut at the end. Someone had freed her. _Jord._

Laurent ran to her, and she halted as her path was blocked by a dense briar patch. She startled when Laurent grabbed the cut rope and the rise of her withers and swung himself up onto her back, feeling her shift and prance anxiously under him as he took hold of the rope. At once, Govart reached him, and Laurent kicked her sides as he leapt towards them with a snarl.

His hand caught ahold of Laurent’s ankle and Laurent lurched dangerously backwards, scrabbling at the horse’s mane and tugging hard to stay on her, the rope wound so tightly around his arm that it was cutting off circulation. The horse reared and Govart’s grip loosened, Laurent clung to her neck and clamped his knees around her middle, seconds from slipping off to certain death. When the horse’s hooves hit the ground, she bounded into a gallop.

Govart let go.


	4. Clipped Wings

Laurent rode. 

The trees were nothing but a dark blur in his peripherals, branches snapping and snagging on his clothes as he urged the horse ever faster, the halter rope burning red marks into his palms; his fingers numb where they were tangled tightly in her mane. Laurent was not aware of any direction other than _away_. At any moment he thought he would hear hoofbeats behind him, turn and see Govart or his uncle. Or Aimeric. Laurent buried his face against the mare’s neck and dug his heels in.

Her pelt was soaked in sweat; foam fell from her muzzle with every stride. Laurent knew horses weren’t meant to gallop for such long distances, but fear filled him whenever she slowed, and he drove her faster until her sides were heaving and his entire body was aching from the constant movement and strain as he struggled to stay on her back without a saddle or proper bridle. His legs were numb and his hands even more so, and when a branch struck his shoulder he tumbled off of her easily, hitting the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of his chest.

Laurent did not quite realize he had fallen until the horse had galloped away, disappearing swiftly through the trees. Gone. Alone. He was alone.

Laurent rolled onto his back, his side protesting the movement. He did not have to look to know it was badly bruised; he’d probably broken a rib or two. Laurent exhaled, biting his tongue through the pain and trying to focus. His uncle would be looking for him, and not only had he lost his horse, now he could barely move. 

But he had to try. 

He started to push himself up and off the ground, and was immediately overcome with a wave of dizziness strong enough to force him back down with a pained gasp, his battered body unable to even consider walking right now. Laurent swallowed back the lump in his throat and curled into a small, protective ball, closing his eyes and waiting for his doom.

He awoke some time later to darkness more complete than anything he’d ever seen. He only knew his eyes were open from the sensation of blinking – but he was alive, and when he pushed himself up again he did not fall, though he did sway and the soreness was worse than before. Breathing was agony. 

The forest at night was as full of live as in the day, but it was magnified in the darkness, and Laurent wrapped his arms around himself as he stumbled a few uncertain steps before admitting defeat – without seeing the sun he had no way of knowing which way was south, and didn’t want to risk coming across the remains of the campsite. 

Laurent shuddered as he huddled in the protected hollow of a tree, shielded by thick brush and hopefully hidden from any searching eyes. Were they all dead like Orlant – Jord and Lazar and Paschal and all the others, even Falada? Was he truly alone now, lost in a foreign land with no way to get back home?

He couldn’t go home anyway, he realized. It was at least a two-month long journey and the snows would be coming any day now, if they weren’t there already. Trying to get back to Arles in winter was suicide, especially on foot. 

So then his only choice was forward, to Ios. Laurent squeezed his eyes shut, and willed himself to make it through the night.

*

When morning came, Laurent’s eyelids felt gluey and his vision was fuzzy and the world spun alarmingly when he stood up, but he could stand, so that was something. The pain in his ribs was a constant throb, but Laurent told himself it was fine, everything was fine; he just had to get out of this damned forest. 

He managed to figure out which way was south after some confused staring at the sky, and stumbled upon a little stream which he followed for three days. Laurent walked day and night and barely rested. His ribs protested the constant walking, but he preferred that pain to what his uncle and Govart would do if they found him. 

He drank water from the stream and managed to find mushrooms and berries that weren’t poisonous, thanks to his mother’s childhood lessons. Still, it wasn’t nearly enough for his injured body, and hunger gnawed at him insistently, making his weak body even weaker. And all the while, his vision blurred and flickered alarmingly, and if he touched the back of his head he could feel swelling there from falling off the horse. Truthfully, it was a miracle he didn’t just keel over. 

At night when his exhausted body forced him to sleep for at least a few fitful hours, he would flinch at every little sound, with every hoot of an owl or crunch of pine needles or rush of wind. Sleep did not come to him easily, and when it did it was filled with terrible, feverish dreams. 

On the third day, the stream ended in a murky green pool lined with cattails. Laurent sat beside it in the mud, collecting himself, taking a deep breath and trying not to cry. Maybe he was almost there. Maybe the forest would end soon.

And maybe not. Maybe he would be stuck wandering here until he could wander no more. It wouldn’t be long, now – when he lifted his hand to his mouth, it came away flecked with red, and he felt like his skin had been replaced by a collection of worsening contusions. He was bleeding from the inside, and nobody could survive that for longer than a few days without treatment.

Laurent was startled out of his glum thoughts by a soft hoot from a nearby tree. He looked up, and an owl looked back at him with large yellow eyes, unblinking.

“Hello,” he said, his voice croaky from disuse. “Are you the one who’s been keeping me awake?”

 _Who_ , the owl said. But what it actually said was, _Yes._

Laurent’s eyes widened as he recognized the sound – apparently some birds shared certain common phrases. He cleared his throat and tried to ask where the forest ended, but the owl gave no indication of having heard him. Laurent gritted his teeth in frustration. If only there were swans here. But he forced himself to be patient, and made small talk with the owl – polite phrases about what the owl had eaten, where it lived, how warm the sun was today. 

The owl seemed curious with him now, shifting on its branch and cocking its head. Laurent decided to try again. He could not ask about streets or houses or people – he doubted the owl would understand. But maybe…

_Where is the place where there is smoke?_

The owl hooted enthusiastically. _One flight against the morning sun,_ it said, and flew in a path from one tree to another and back to demonstrate the right direction.

Dizzy with relief and desperately hoping the owl was right, Laurent thanked him and followed the path he had indicated, continuing southwest and focusing on every tree in front of him, trying to keep his hazy mind focused. His head ached, but he continued on, tripping over his own feet and pausing to lean against the nearest tree and cough, his palms splattered with blood. And still, he walked.

At first he did not see the tents – they were well camouflaged, and in fact it was only when he had stumbled directly into the camp that he realized where he was. Even then, it didn’t make sense – the owl had led him to a Vaskian clan. In Akielos? Laurent was half-convinced he was hallucinating.

Then he was surrounded by warrior women with drawn swords and strung bows, and knew he couldn’t possibly make this up. He also couldn’t possibly fight them off, and when one of them strode towards him he could do nothing but try to stay on his feet and hope she wouldn’t gut him on the spot. 

She looked like the leader, with a heavy fur mantle and red paint (or blood) streaked across her high cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. “How did you find us?” she demanded in rough Akielon, her black eyes narrowed.

Laurent answered in delirious, slurred Veretian. “An owl told me,” he gasped, more blood dripping from his mouth. Her eyes widened. Laurent’s vision was spotting, but he had to stay conscious. Vaskians valued strength and endurance. Unfortunately, he was currently not a shining example of either. “Told me…this was where the smoke is…”

She lunged for him, and Laurent thought he was being attacked until his knees gave out and he fainted, directly in the Vaskian leader’s arms. 

*

When Laurent opened his eyes again he was once more surrounded by women, but the atmosphere was very different. He had been moved into a tent onto some kind of cot, and to his alarm his clothes were gone; only the amulet around his neck remained. He was only covered by a warm sort of animal pelt that kept getting lifted up so that the women could tend to his ribs, which throbbed with the sharp pain that had woken him. Laurent blinked blearily and realized his bandaged head was resting in someone’s lap, and there were soft hands carding through his hair and a curious face inches above his own.

Laurent made a panicked sound and tried to jerk away, pain jolting through his head; three pairs of hands held him down firmly. The face, blurry and indistinct, was frowning. 

“Calm him, Kashel,” one of the older women snapped in Vaskian. “He’ll hurt himself further.”

The girl holding his head, Kashel, nodded and leaned over, picking up a cup of something and pressing it to Laurent’s lips. “Drink,” she said in Veretian, and Laurent hesitated. Kashel sighed and poked his shoulder insistently. “To ease your pain. We’re here to help, _faunus_.”

Laurent stared up at her. “Faunus?”

Kashel nodded. “One who speaks to beasts.”

Laurent panicked again, remembering that he’d blurted out that an owl led him to the camp, to the Vaskian leader no less. The women snapped at Kashel. “Less talking, more calming, girl!”

“Shh,” she muttered. “You are safe here, faunus. In Vask, your kind are revered. Drink.”

Laurent did not understand, but he parted his lips and drank, a cool, numb feeling spreading through his chest and limbs, resolving in unconsciousness once more. The amulet was warm against his chest. 

*

When he woke again, he was alone, still in the cot but with cloth wrapped around his hips and the blanket fully covering him. Laurent peeked beneath it and saw his ribs were tightly bound and bandaged. The women must have applied some sort of salve because the pain was barely noticeable, even when he slowly sat up. His head still felt sore, but the dizziness and confusion was gone. 

“Oh! You’re awake!”

Laurent almost fell out of his cot. Apparently he was not as alone as he’d thought, because the girl from earlier, Kashel, was getting up from where she’d been wrapped in a fur blanket on the ground. Now that his vision was working properly, he could see she was young – perhaps near his age – and, like most Vaskian women, attractive and athletic. Her thick clothing could not quite hide her body’s curves, and her bare arms were corded with muscle. 

She grinned at him, seeing the direction of his gaze, and Laurent flushed. Kashel sauntered closer, her long brown hair falling in messy waves around her round face. “You’re a strange one, faunus,” she murmured. “What’s a Veretian doing this far south?”

Laurent tilted his head. “I could ask you the same,” he retorted. 

Kashel folded her arms. “You’re not in much of a position to be asking anything of me,” she pointed out. Laurent swallowed. “We saved your life. You were more bruises than boy. What happened to you?”

Laurent was saved from answering when the Vaskian leader strode into the tent; flooding the small area with light and making Kashel scramble off to the side to make room. She stared at him. Laurent stared steadily back. Evidently this was not something most captured Veretian boys did, because her eyes flickered with surprise.

“Thank you for not killing me,” Laurent said, in Akielon this time.

“You were injured and unarmed,” she replied simply. “Why were you injured?”

“I fell off a horse,” Laurent said. She raised an eyebrow. “At full gallop,” he added. 

“Why were you riding a horse at full gallop through the Foloi?” she asked.

Laurent broke her gaze. “I…there are men who wish to find me and kill me. My presence puts you and your clan in danger; they are looking for me –”

She held up a hand. “You have been here a week, faunus. If they have not yet found you, it is doubtful that they ever will.”

“A week?!” Laurent exclaimed. “I – I need to get to –”

“To Ios, yes,” she said. “You talk in your sleep. You say the Crown Prince’s name often, and speak of uncles and birds.” Laurent blanched. She ignored it. “Veretian, why are you here?”

Laurent exhaled. “I…I cannot say.” Her brows lowered. “I wish I could, truly, but all I can tell you is that I must get to Ios with haste, to the palace.”

“The palace,” she repeated. “A Veretian will not be welcomed there.”

“Neither will a faunus,” Laurent muttered.

She tilted her head. “My name is Halvik,” she said. “Do not tell me your name. In Akielos, you must have a new name if you wish to live. Do you wish to live?”

Laurent nodded tightly. 

“Good,” Halvik said. “From now on you will be called Lykos.”

“Lykos,” he echoed. 

“Does it please you?” Halvik asked. “It means ‘little wolf.’”

“I know,” Laurent said. Halvik smiled, though it was more a baring of teeth. “Thank you, Halvik.”

She sobered. “You are not healed fully. Your ribs are badly bruised still. But if you cannot wait, Kashel and two others are leaving tomorrow morning for marketday in the city. You will go with them.”

“I will,” Laurent said. 

Halvik inclined her head, pleased. “Good.” She turned to go, and then paused. “Your amulet – it is Vaskian. How did you come by it, Lykos?”

Laurent touched the small glass orb carefully. “My brother’s wife is Vaskian,” he told her. “It is my brother’s blood.”

Halvik smiled, this time more gently. “It has served you well so far,” she said. “May it continue to do so.” And then she left, leaving him alone with Kashel again.

She was gawking at him. “Halvik _likes_ you,” she said, as if she had just witnessed a miracle.

Laurent sat uncertainly on the edge of the cot, the blanket wrapped tightly around his body. “How do you know?”

Kashel laughed. “Trust me, if she didn’t, you’d be six feet under by now.” She tilted her head. “Are all Veretian men so small?”

Laurent choked. “Excuse me?”

She laughed again. “Not like that. Just – our men, they’re…” She gestured as if to indicate wide shoulders and great height. “And you’re…well, you could pass for a woman.”

Laurent folded his arms, suppressing a wince as he brushed his ribs. “From a Vaskian, I’m not sure that’s an insult.”

Kashel shrugged. “It’s not. You’re no weakling, or you wouldn’t have survived long enough to reach us. Bet you thought you were mad when you found our camp, huh?”

“It’s still unclear to me why there’s a Vaskian clan in the heart of Akielos.”

She wiggled her eyebrows. “Secret Empress business. Keep your enemies close, and all that.”

Laurent frowned. “Since when are Vask and Akielos enemies?”

Kashel shook her head and turned. “We’re not, yet. But…there’s rumor that trouble’s brewing in Ios. King Theomedes is old. His queen is dead. His bastard son covets the throne, or so they say. He’s a warmonger, that one.”

“And what of Crown Prince Damianos?”

She smirked. “Oh, right – you’ve a liking for him.” Laurent scowled. Kashel waved a hand. “He’s fine at the moment, the golden son, very honorable and handsome from what I’ve heard. He was at some peace summit with Vere not long ago. Apparently he changed his father’s mind about invasion and some deal was made.” Kashel eyed him. “You wouldn’t know anything about the deal, would you?”

Laurent sighed. “No,” he said. “All I know is that we’ve sacrificed something to avoid war.”

Kashel watched him closely before pausing and jumping up. “Oh! I almost forgot – we found this in your pocket.” She went to the corner of the tent, where his dirty clothes were neatly folded, and withdrew from his jacket the dagger Auguste had given him. She unsheathed it, the silver glinting coldly in the lamplight. Laurent’s eyes widened. Kashel weighed it in her hands. “Unless you stole it, I’d wager you’re of high birth, faunus. Am I wrong?”

“I didn’t steal it,” Laurent said. “My brother gave it to me.”

“Your brother who married the Vaskian?” 

“My only brother,” Laurent said. “Please give it back.”

Kashel blinked, startled by the emotion in his voice. She handed it over. “Don’t try anything stupid. I’ve got one of my own. It’s not as pretty, but it’s bigger.” She patted her hip, where a long bone-handled knife was sheathed. “Mine’s called Darithbor. It means ‘night blade.’ Yours got a name?”

Laurent sheathed the dagger, the leather warm against his palms. He considered it. “Swansong,” he murmured.

She whistled. “Fancy. Well, _Lykos_ , if you’re going to marketday with us tomorrow…we need to get rid of that yellow hair of yours.” Laurent’s hands flew to his head protectively. Kashel rolled her eyes. “We’re not burning it off, calm down. Many in Ios wear headscarves. Without one…well. Let’s just say that if there are men looking for you, you’ll be making their job very easy.”

“I’ll wear one,” Laurent said. “I’ll dye my hair black if I need to. If those men catch me –”

“They won’t,” Kashel interrupted. “They won’t, because you’re not going to let them. Are you?”

“No,” Laurent whispered. “No, I won’t let them.”

Kashel offered him a hand. “Right you are. Now, let’s see if we can’t find you a scarf and some clothes, hm?”

*

When the next day dawned, Laurent left the camp in an Akielon chiton and headscarf with Kashel and two other clanswomen, Siska and Torren. Siska was older, perhaps around Laurent’s father’s age, but Torren was the same age as Kashel and the two seemed thick as thieves. Torren was endlessly curious about Laurent, and kept trying to peek beneath his headscarf to see a glimpse of gold. Siska swatted her on the head and told her to “stop getting distracted by shiny things” (at least, that’s what it sounded like – Laurent needed to brush up on his Vaskian). 

Perhaps Halvik did indeed like him, because she gave him his own horse instead of forcing him to ride pillion with Kashel. Siska fussed that he was going to fall again and slow them down. Laurent endeavored to prove her wrong, and kept pace with the Vaskian trio even when his ribs ached anew.

The horse he had been given was a good-natured gelding, and though he responded beautifully to all of Laurent’s unspoken commands, he was no Falada. He lacked the stallion’s wildness and boldness; he lacked the spark Laurent had grown so used to. 

Where was Falada now? Laurent shuddered to think of what his uncle could have done to him. But he had hope that perhaps Aimeric had softened Falada’s sentence. Unlike his uncle, he knew Aimeric was not coldhearted, not entirely. Then again, Laurent was beginning to realize he hadn’t known Aimeric very well at all. 

The journey to Ios was about three days, and Laurent was on edge the entire time. Kashel tried to calm him with clever quips and silly stories, but Laurent kept glancing over his shoulder for a flash of golden hair or a glint of cold gray eyes. He was sure that at any moment they would be pursued, or maybe they would stumble across the fallen bodies of Jord, Lazar, Paschal, and all the others who had dared to remain loyal to Laurent. Laurent had no doubt his uncle had murdered them, even the old physician. 

He would not want any loose ends. That was what Laurent was – a loose end to be cut, neatly and quickly. 

Laurent did not sleep very well. 

By the time the evergreen trees gave way to the scattered villages of Kesus in the lighter woods, Laurent was exhausted and so nervous that his horse had begun to prance anxiously under him. Kashel reined her horse in alongside him. “You look terrified,” she informed him. “Akielos isn’t as bad as Vere makes it out to be, you know.”

Laurent shook his head. “It’s not that,” he started. “It’s just…” He sighed. “I am alone and hunted in a land I do not know.”

“You are not alone,” Kashel replied firmly. “The clan is moving closer to the capital come winter. We will be near, if you need us.” She smiled. “Just ask another owl where the warrior women are.”

Laurent smiled back weakly. “Thank you.”

“But I do not think it will come to that, Lykos,” she said. “You’re resourceful. Clever, like all Veretians. You’ll find your own way, I think. Make your own allies.”

Laurent hoped she was right.

*

The villages were small and unremarkable, and the villagers seemed like hardworking, humble folk who sometimes waved to them from their little houses and fields. Most were similarly colored, with brown skin and dark hair and eyes. There were a few Akielons with paler skin and lighter hair, but none even came close to Laurent’s milk-white tone and golden locks. He felt out of place, but was relieved to note that Kashel had been correct – many wore headscarves to shield them from the sun, and no one looked at him strangely or seemed to suspect he was hiding something. 

Of course they would not suspect that. Akielons were unused to the deceit and intrigue that was commonplace in Vere. Laurent’s gut twisted. They would never suspect Aimeric to be anything other than what he said he was. If he said he was the Second Prince of Vere, then he was. 

Laurent knew the Veretians looking for him would not be so blind. He had taken to covering his hair all the time, and used the leftover charcoal from the campfire to darken his fair eyebrows. It often smudged and got all over his fingers, but it made him feel more secure in his new identity as Lykos, the poor forest boy.

At the end of the third day, they reached the city gates. Outside of the forest, Akielos was a land of surging hills and rising lowlands, and the capital was built upon the grandest of hills, past which the land fell away to sheer white cliffs polished by the pounding ocean surf. It was with this white stone that much of the city was built, including the walls, which rose up like towering waves before them, five men high and draped with the lion banners of Akielos. And in the distance, at the hill’s peak, lay the palace, gleaming marble aglow with the dying golden light of sunset. 

There was a steady stream of people in and out of the main gates; they came and went freely, unimpeded by the soldiers who idly lined the street, leaning against their iron-tipped javelins. They wore chitons of a different style than Laurent’s – off the shoulder to show off their muscled chests, with simple leather armor on their legs and arms.

One wore Veretian armor. 

Laurent tensed in the saddle, keeping his head low so Govart would not see his face. The mercenary had a hand on his sword hilt, squinting into the crowd against the setting sun. Laurent’s heart leapt into his throat as they drew closer. Beside him, Kashel had also seen, and motioned for him to break off from the crowd and follow her down a side street. 

Laurent did so hastily, Siska and Torren close behind, and only when they had led the horses half a mile down the cobbled road did his pounding heart finally return to normal. The four of them dismounted in the open expanse of the market square where other vendors had already arrived with their horses and wagons full of goods. The Vaskians quickly made friends with the vendors next to them, a small family of forest folk with a wagon full of aromatic herbs for teas and perfumes. 

Laurent helped Kashel unpack the Vaskian goods – mostly various exotic meats from the forest, like bear and elk and boar. He might have been a little repulsed by it if he did not know that Vaskians honored every animal they killed, and did not kill them unnecessarily. Even still, he declined the venison Kashel offered him for dinner and instead nibbled on a piece of flavorful flatbread one of the herb sellers had given him, turning his thoughts over uneasily in his head.

Govart was in the city. Aimeric and his uncle and the other traitors must be, too – and they knew Laurent had come here, that he’d be forced to come here; there was no going north until the snows melted. 

One of the Akielon herbalists sat down next to him – a young girl who could not have been older than ten. She poked his knee, startling him out of his thoughts. He looked down at her open, curious brown face and forced a smile. “What is it?” he asked, offering her a little piece of the flatbread. 

She took it and pointed at his face. “You have smudges,” she said. “And a funny accent.”

Laurent blinked. She was right – his Akielon was good, but she spoke it differently than he did, with clipped vowels and more guttural consonants. He tilted his head. “Where are you from?” he asked, very aware of how his Akielon vowels rolled as they did in Veretian. 

“North of Blackpond,” she said. “Where are you from?”

“North of there,” Laurent replied, eyebrows raised. 

She giggled, amused rather than scared by this answer. “My name’s Gia,” she said, holding out a hand. He shook it.

“I’m Lykos,” he told her. “What sort of herbs does your family sell?” He wanted to hear more of her accent.

Gia grinned. “Oh, lots. Ma makes teas out of the usual stuff, peppermint and chamomile and such, but some are for treating special aches and pains, like ginger and willowbark. And Pa sells plants to make dyes, like woad and madder and saffron –”

Laurent leaned forward. “Dyes?”

“Uh-huh. For clothes, mostly, or curtains or bed sheets –”

“What about hair?” Laurent interrupted. 

She shrugged. “Sure, I guess so. It’s dye, stains most everything.” Gia eyed him. “Why, you want red hair or somethin’?”

“Brown, actually,” Laurent said.

Gia wrinkled her nose. “Brown? Only thing that dyes a good brown is thornroot. Nobody ever buys it, dunno why Pa keeps pickin’ it.”

Laurent bit his lip. “I don’t have any money, but…maybe I could give you something else in exchange for a piece of thornroot?”

Gia leapt up, going over to her family’s wagon and bringing back a black, gnarled little root. “Just take it,” she said, pressing it into his palm. “Nobody else is gonna. And you obviously need it.” She pointed to his eyebrows. “Smudgy.”

Laurent hesitated. “Are you sure there’s no way I can pay –”

Gia shook her head. “Take it. Grind it up in vinegar to get the dye out. Wears off after three weeks…this here root’s enough for nine, I think.”

Laurent took the root and tucked it in his pocket. “Thank you, Gia. Could I…ask you one more thing?” She nodded amiably. “Is it possible to speak to the king? Or prince?”

“On marketday lots of people line up on the palace steps to talk to the king.” Gia furrowed her brow. “You gotta get there early, though.”

“Marketday is tomorrow, right?” 

“Yes.” Gia poked his knee again. “Why d’you wanna talk to the king?”

“I need to find work,” Laurent told her. “At the palace, hopefully.”

Gia grinned. “My older sister works there! She takes care of the royal chickens.” She said it with pride. Laurent’s chest twinged – here he was, ashamed that he had to stoop so low and work as a palace servant, and yet Gia saw it as a great honor, an opportunity for a forest peasant who had few chances to rise in the ranks. “I hope you meet her. She’d like you. Her name is Vannes.”

“Vannes,” Laurent repeated, hopeful for the first time in a long time. _Make your own allies._ “I’ll look for her, and tell her you said hello.”

Gia smiled and stood up again. “Good luck, Lykos,” she said, and skipped off to her mother to get supper.

Laurent set up his bedroll in the shadows, in front of a sturdy shop wall and out of sight of the main square in case anyone was still looking. Kashel set up hers beside him, handing him a cup of water which he took gratefully. They drank in companionable silence.

“I’m leaving early tomorrow for the palace,” Laurent said as the sky darkened, streaks of twilight banishing the sun’s lingering gold.

Kashel leaned back against the wall. “Don’t do anything stupid for at least a week,” she replied, dark hair falling into her face. “Those ribs of yours can’t handle it.”

“I’m going to try to get a job at the palace.” Laurent sighed. “Maybe working with the animals.”

“You won’t meet your Prince in the chicken coops,” Kashel said, brow raised. 

“He’s not mine,” Laurent murmured. “I have nothing of my own.” He paused. “Not yet.”

Kashel clinked her mug against his. “That’s the spirit, faunus,” she said. “Not yet, but soon.”

*

Laurent left the Vaskians when the sky was still dark, with only the faintest hint of sunlight coming up over the horizon. He wove his way carefully through the sleepy streets, staying to the shadows, and paused before a curtained shop window to reapply the charcoal to his eyebrows, making sure they looked convincing. He added some dust to his skin and clothes as well, tightened his headscarf, and patted the small piece of thornroot in his pocket. He still had his dagger, too, tucked into his boot, and the amulet warm around his neck.

By the time he reached the palace steps the sky was lightening and a line had already begun to form, though it was only a few dozen people long. While he waited, Laurent looked up at the palace, in awe of it despite himself. The palace at Arles was impressive, with its intricate terraces and high, twisting towers, but the palace at Ios was more…imposing. It looked ready to withstand three sieges in a row; supported by strong marble pillars and buttresses that lacked adornment, with windows only in the higher levels, and even those were narrow slits with defensive tactics in mind, not meant for viewing pleasure. 

As Laurent ascended the steps, more of the palace grounds came into view – the front courtyard was nearly as busy as the market square, servants hurrying to and fro like busy ants, draped with more lion banners and lined with guards as the main street had been (though thankfully Govart was not among them). The courtyard was enclosed with marble archways and pillars that led out into the rest of the grounds – Laurent could see a sliver of green pasture and a long building that might have been the stables, groves of strange, small trees, and gardens filled with bright flowers opening to the rising sun.

Halfway up, Laurent’s stomach grumbled with hunger, and he berated himself for not bringing some of the Vaskian’s food with him. His hunger made him irritable. It was just so unfair, to eat others’ food and rely on others’ charity when this palace would have been his home, _should have been his home._ And instead he was waiting in a long line of patient peasants in dirty travel clothes, hiding his hair and his face and smudging his brows with charcoal dust. 

_This is not who I am,_ Laurent thought stubbornly. But his anger faded as he drew closer to the palace doors. _So who am I?_

The cool shadow of the palace fell over him, and from the open doors the smell of royalty washed over him like a bucket of cold water – floor wax, perfume, expensive stone, old metal, garden roses, soap, rosewater, lamp oil, fresh cotton. A kingdom of scents stirred memories of Arles, of the safe days spent toiling over language books and carefree days spent riding Falada in the meadows; of sword training with Auguste; of sitting by the pond with his mother and the swans; of watching his father and wondering if he would ever be like him; of sitting on a small velvet couch and listening to a yellow canary scream from a gilded cage –

Laurent shook himself. 

The man before him entered the visiting chamber, and that was when Laurent saw Aimeric.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, I love me some Vaskian ladies. Next chapter is when even more fun introductions come! Get ready for Vannes, Nicaise, Erasmus...and the list goes on. (Oh, and Damen, I guess...but you guys don't really want to see him, do you? ;D )
> 
> I'll try to get Chapter 5 up before I leave for Peru in a week, because I will be gone for 2 weeks and this story will be on a 2-3 week hiatus since I won't be able to post :/ Thanks for your understanding and continued support. 
> 
> Also, PLEASE check out the mixes 'cast iron' and 'Cast Iron Bitch' on 8 tracks, they are my go-to writing music for Laurent and I love them.


	5. Birds of a Feather

Aimeric’s dark gold hair was a beacon among the dark heads all around him, and the golden circlet he wore shone even brighter, sapphires glinting mockingly. Still frozen in shock, Laurent remembered walking in on Aimeric trying it on, trying on _his_ crown. His hands curled into fists. It was _his_ , and Aimeric had no right to it, to any of it. Aimeric was wearing Laurent’s clothes, too – the tightly laced dark blue attire stood out starkly against the light, loose Akielon clothing. He strolled with slow confidence, lips tilted in an amused half-smile as he listened to the nobleman walking alongside him, their laughter carrying through the airy room.

Laurent kept his head down, bracing himself for discovery, listening to the click of Aimeric’s (no, _his_ ) shoes and the startled rustling as claimants moved hastily out of his way, making guesses at bowing before this strange royal who reeked of condescension and confidence. At any moment Laurent was certain they would come to a stop before him to drag him away in chains to some dark Akielon oubliette where he would never again see the light of day. And that was the best case scenario.

But instead he was nudged forward, and as Aimeric turned down the hall with the nobleman, the guard in front of the king’s chamber gestured impatiently for him to step forward. “Come, you’re next,” he said in gruff Akielon. “Step quickly, boy.”

Laurent stumbled forward, keeping his head down as the guard opened the door for him, leaving him in a long, narrow room lined with guards and supported by marble pillars even grander than the ones outside, carved with scenes Laurent could not quite make out. But what commanded most of his attention was the throne in the middle of the room – not the throne proper, but rather a very expensive chair fit for a king.

“Come closer,” the king said.

Laurent’s heart pounded. His uncle must be close to Aimeric, and was likely in the palace somewhere. He half feared that when he raised his gaze he would see his uncle standing alongside the Akielon king with a thin smile, having already ensnared Akielos with his venomous words and terrible power. 

But his uncle was not there. Upon seeing him, Laurent highly doubted the Akielon king was the type to let anyone else stand within three feet of his throne, proper or not. Faintly, Laurent wondered if there might be some truth to Aimeric’s claims about Akielon men.

The Vaskians had said King Theomedes was growing old. But “old” clearly did not mean the same thing in Akielos as it did in Vere. Laurent had expected an elderly man with worn, wrinkled skin, patchy graying hair like a monk’s, and perhaps a thin beard. A frail, aging monarch who spent most of his days advising from his throne and not much else.

But King Theomedes could not in any way be described as frail. And he clearly did more than sit on his throne. The man was so broad and tall it seemed ridiculous that he should even fit on the throne, one muscled arm hanging casually over the side and the other extended towards Laurent. He wore a long chiton with added leather straps, gold thread ornamentation, and a red cape affixed to one large shoulder by a golden lion pin. He looked for all the world like a victorious general in his prime, not an aging monarch. Laurent supposed he was – after all, he had taken Delfeur. 

Of course, he was not young, that was as obvious as his strength – his dark, curly hair was silver in places, and his beard even more so. His arms and legs were littered with old scars, his face was lined with wrinkles and sun spots, and his brown eyes were wise but tired when they fixed on Laurent’s. 

Laurent dropped into the deepest bow he had been taught. He had not been trained in what to do when appearing as a mere servant in front of a very powerful king.  
King Theomedes seemed amused by this. “Rise,” he said, tapping a finger on one of the chair’s large arms. “What is your petition?”

Laurent swallowed. His voice was loud, booming and echoing, and that was just his normal speaking voice. His own voice sounded small and silly in comparison, especially in the accent he had borrowed from little Gia. Part of him wanted to blurt everything out right then and there – to appeal to Theomedes, to plead with him, even – but Laurent knew better. That would be suicide. His uncle would toss his words aside and make everyone believe Laurent was the traitor. So he had no choice. “I…I wish to get work at the palace, Exalted,” he said, barely managing to stop himself from saying _Your Highness_ instead.

Theomedes nodded. “What can you do?”

“I work with horses,” Laurent replied, hopeful. 

Theomedes looked towards a counselor who stood off to the right, alongside one of the pillars. “Is there a need for another stable hand at present?” he asked.

The counselor shook his head as he looked over a parchment affixed to a thin board. Laurent’s heart sank. Then the counselor looked up. “However, the goose boy finds himself alone and at odds with a gaggle of fifty.”

Theomedes raised an eyebrow at Laurent. “Do you wish to serve as a goose boy?”

He had no choice. “Yes, Exalted,” he said.

Theomedes gestured impatiently to the pageboy waiting by the far door. “Good. Go.”

“Thank you, Exalted,” Laurent said, bowing deeply again. This time, when he straightened, Theomedes’ expression had changed, his brow lowered and the lines around his mouth deepening, as if seeing Laurent for the first time. Laurent felt commanded to hold still as if for inspection, heart in his throat as the king stared at him.

“Good,” Theomedes said again, and with a twitch of his mouth that was almost a smile he sent Laurent off with the pageboy. 

The palace at Ios was nothing like Arles, with little décor and ornamentation – it was very simplistic, elegant in a very…utilitarian sort of way. Still, Laurent could not help but find the smooth statues, carved pillars, and occasional mural intriguing, and eyed them as they passed. The pageboy noticed, and laughed as they stepped out of the main palace and into an outer courtyard. 

“From the forest, are you?” the pageboy asked brightly. 

“Near Blackpond,” Laurent replied shortly. The pageboy had strange coloring for an Akielon – fiery red hair, sharp green eyes, and lighter skin covered in freckles. He reminded Laurent of a robin with his red, feathery hair and puffed out chest.

“Ah,” the boy said, nodding sagely as if that explained everything. “I’m Ancel. I’m from the capital – my Pa is on the Crown Prince’s guard.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “What an honor.”

Ancel narrowed his eyes at Laurent as if to figure out if he was mocking him or not. Laurent just kept walking across the courtyard, until Ancel grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. Laurent whirled on him, but Ancel had his head bowed and hissed under his breath, “Bow. You almost walked straight into Lady Jokaste.” 

Laurent tensed at the name, and slowly lowered his head, cautiously lifting his eyes. Sure enough, a tall, willowy blonde woman was mere feet away, pausing in her long strides and looking at them with a slight smirk. Laurent swallowed. _The spitting image of you, really, if you were taller and curvier and prettier._

“Hello, Ancel,” Jokaste said pleasantly. “Is that a new palace servant you have there?”

Ancel nodded jerkily. “Yes, my Lady. He is to be the new goose boy.”

Jokaste tilted her head. “I see. What is your name?”

“Lykos,” Laurent said. “My Lady.”

Jokaste chuckled. “A little wolf taking care of geese? Tsk, tsk.” She stepped close, and suddenly her hand was on Laurent’s chin, tipping it up to look directly at her. With a jolt, he realized Jokaste was only a few years older than himself, though she held herself like a woman much older. “Lykos,” she repeated in an odd tone. Her fingers were soft on his jaw.

Then, slowly, her other hand lifted and her thumb swept lightly across his left brow, coming away black with charcoal. Laurent’s breath caught. Jokaste smiled at him, a kind of scheming, secretive smile, and stepped away. “You have such lovely, pale skin, Lykos,” she said. “Careful that it doesn’t burn in the sun.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Laurent said faintly as she turned on her heel and walked away, sheer white dress swirling around her ankles. 

Ancel blinked at him. “I think she likes you,” he said in an awed tone as they continued on. 

Laurent shook his head, trying to calm his nerves. “Isn’t she Damianos’ lover?”

“Yes.” Ancel wrinkled his nose. “But the Veretians certainly wish she wasn’t. That snobby Prince Laurent wants the Crown Prince all to himself, seems like.”

“Hm,” Laurent said. “And what does Lady Jokaste think of the Veretians?”

“Oh, she hates them,” Ancel replied cheerfully. “Wouldn’t you, if they tried to separate you from your beloved?”

“So…she and Damianos, they’re not just…” He made a vague hand gesture and Ancel’s cheeks turned pink. 

“No!” Ancel exclaimed, and then paused. “Well, maybe. But rumor was that they would marry, before the Veretians butted in, anyway. And I doubt Lady Jokaste would be content as a king’s concubine.”

Laurent couldn’t quite fault her for that.

The two of them walked along the palace wall, which was smaller than the city wall but impressive nonetheless. Ancel talked the whole way, informing Laurent of his many complicated page duties and telling him all about the city. Laurent only half-listened, fully prepared to at any moment run into one of his uncle’s men. But they escaped unscathed, and Laurent allowed himself to let out the breath he’d been holding when Ancel finally led him through a gate in the palace wall.

“These are the pastures, where you’ll be working – where all the cows, sheep, geese and such are kept.” They walked down a rough dirt path towards the wide expanse of green Ancel had spoken of. 

“Where are the horses kept?” Laurent ventured to ask.

“Oh, the stables are behind the palace. Servants can’t just waltz in there, though, so don’t get any ideas or the guards will have your hide,” Ancel warned.

Laurent cursed silently. Of course nothing could just be easy, for once.

After a few more minutes of walking on the path, they came to a long, bright yellow, two-story building. The sour-faced man inside introduced himself as Adrastus, the master of the animal-keepers, and shooed Ancel away, threatening to send him back to the kitchens if he dawdled. Ancel scowled at Adrastus for spoiling his image and rushed away. 

Adrastus looked at Laurent critically. “Forest-born, are you? Well, you’re not to get homesick and go running off come spring, understand?”

“Yes,” Laurent said. 

He folded his arms. “Don’t know why you went to the king first instead of coming here directly. Suppose you thought it was a grand entrance, but don’t think it means you’ll be treated any different. We all work. That’s what we do here – work.”

Laurent nodded. “Yes,” he said.

Adrastus pursed his lips. “Not a talkative one. Good.” He gestured to the wide room, which was lined with scuffed, empty tables. “This is where you’ll take your meals, morning and night. Might as well start now.” He bid Laurent to sit and came back with a glass of water and a bowl of bean soup. Laurent guzzled the water quickly, and wished he’d saved some to help get down the cold soup. His stomach still grumbled, but he told it to hush. It would have to get used to humbler meals. 

Adrastus took him upstairs and gave him a spare chiton for washday, a long birch cut with a bent end for herding the geese, and a wide-brimmed straw hat with a blue ribbon that tied under the chin, effectively hiding, Laurent imagined, every strand of one’s hair. 

As they went back down the stairs, Laurent remembered the thornroot in his pocket and asked for some vinegar. After some griping, Adrastus gave him a little (enough) in a loaned cup. 

“You’ll be living in the fifth house from the west, along the wall. Rest of the day is free. Be here for breakfast early.” Adrastus sent him out and closed the door. He cracked it open again. “And bring that cup back.”

Opposite the master’s hall squatted a small collection of dwellings, each a tiny house with a window and door. As Laurent passed a few of them, he could see that many were decorated with little garlands or trinkets, and some had scratched their names into the doorposts.

The first one had _ERASMUS_ carved into the doorframe and little polished seashells lined the windowsill, and beside it was one with _KALLIAS_ on the door itself and a row of sparkling stones on the sill. Some were more _interesting_ – a faded blue house near Laurent’s had _NICAISE_ scrawled harshly over the top of the door, with what appeared to be a rat skull on the threshold. Somebody had tucked a little pink flower into one of the rat’s earholes.

And the fourth house’s door, the one next to Laurent’s, said _VANNES_. He blinked, disbelieving. Well…maybe his luck wasn’t so rotten after all. And she didn’t have rat skull décor – just a couple stalks of lavender hanging from a nail in the doorframe, and on the windowsill a glass jar filled with brightly-colored chicken feathers. All the houses were empty – their occupants were likely at market – but Laurent’s curiosity was piqued. 

Cheered by his new neighbors, Laurent was not as disappointed with his new home as he might have been otherwise. It was small, yes – so small that if he stretched his arms out he could almost touch both walls – but it was better than an oubliette. A small bed, a side-table, and three iron hooks in the wall were the only furnishings, and when Laurent sat on the bed he could feel the wooden slats through the thin mattress. The single room smelled like animals and too many people living close together, and Laurent did not have to wonder at where Nicaise had gotten the rat skull. 

Laurent thought of his apartments in Arles, how the first room alone could hold fifteen of these, and pictured the bleak gray walls widening outwards and brightening; pictured the thin mattress growing plush and thick, covered in a small mountain of pillows; pictured the cold floor covered by rugs so soft it felt like walking on clouds; pictured the small table heaped with food; pictured the dark corners filled with books; pictured the room as it would be fit for a prince.

But he was not a prince anymore. The reality of it crashed down upon him, and he swallowed it down resolutely, cold and hard and bleak as it was. He did not know how long he would be here. He did not know if he would ever be able to leave. But until then, he was not a prince. He was not anything but a servant, a goose boy, and if he convinced himself of that he might be able to survive here.

Laurent stared at the cup of vinegar in his soft, uncallused hands and took a deep breath before wiping off his brows and going about making the dye, cutting a section of the thornroot into strips with a small rock and grinding it up with the vinegar in the hollow of a floor stone, watching the dark dye seep out steadily like blood. With a small bundle of grass, Laurent carefully covered his eyebrows with the dye, peering at his blurry reflection in the metal cup. As it dried, the hair darkened, and with the rest of his hair covered one would never know he was the missing boy with yellow hair. 

He wiped off the dried dye on the underside of his scarf and, after a moment’s indecision, unwound it from his head. His hair, damp and wavy from its confinement, fell just past his ears, and Laurent ran his fingers through it, biting his lip hard. It would be best just to cut it and dye it too, and save himself the trouble of wearing the scarf every day or tucking each strand into his hat. 

But he did not want to. Stubbornly, Laurent refused to endure another trial so that he might hide from his uncle. His uncle had already forced him to give up his crown, his clothes, his horse, his dignity – Laurent would not give him this, too. 

So he didn’t. He left the scarf off, and when the dull ache in his ribs made itself known again, Laurent laid down on the thin bed and slept.

*

Laurent awoke groggily as dawn spilled its pale light across him through the window, coaxing him up and out of bed even though his side ached still and his head was blurry from sleep. He had slept long but restlessly, and his neck cracked alarmingly when he rolled his shoulders and reached for the headscarf. Once he’d looped it tightly enough to cover any and all telltale blond strands, Laurent stepped outside, armed with the goose crook, and went to brave Adrastus’s breakfast tables. 

He was one of the last to arrive, so when he opened the door the confusing smell of warm food, animals, and many people who spent too much time with animals and too little time in the bath washed over him. The hall was full of sound, from the crashing of cutlery and ceramic to the raucous laughter and ceaseless chatter of friends. They were young but varying in exact age, some boys barely older than Gia and some girls older than Laurent, all with hair shaded sepia brown to mud black. 

It was not long before he was noticed.

“Hey, Nicaise, there’s your new one.”

“Go on, tell him how happy you are to see him!” said a boy. “Give him a kiss!” He pushed another boy with a blue cap off the end of a bench and onto the floor, and that boy promptly got to his feet and grabbed a handful of scrambled eggs. Before his gooey hand reached the other boy’s face, Adrastus had leapt forward and grabbed his wrist, glaring at the boy, who glared right back. 

“Nicaise, I’ll have you cleaning eggs off the floor at bed-hour, I swear I will, so meet Lykos and _sit down_ ,” Adrastus warned.

Nicaise sniffed, and with a disdainful sigh slowly opened his fist, letting the eggs drip back onto his plate before wiping the sticky remnants on his chiton carelessly and holding out the same hand for Laurent to shake. Laurent eyed it with a raised eyebrow. Nicaise glared at him.

The viciousness in his eyes was at odds with the rest of his face, which was actually rather pretty. From under his blue cap curled dark brown hair, and his tanned skin was speckled with freckles here and there, a light dusting across his upturned nose and around his scowling bow lips. Even his eyes, fierce as they were, glittered a deep blue, fringed with long dark lashes. 

“I’m Nicaise,” he spat. “I keep the geese.”

“Kiss him!” the other boy crowed again.

Nicaise whirled furiously. “Shut it, or I’ll shove eggs up your nose and I’ll clean it and you off the floor until next morning if I have to!”

Laurent shook his hand. “Lykos,” he said. “I keep the geese too, apparently.” He surreptitiously wiped the egg goo off on a tablecloth. 

Nicaise glowered at him for a few more seconds.

“Where’re you from?” asked the boy Nicaise had threatened.

“Near Blackpond,” Laurent replied. 

The boy perked up. “Hey, Vannes, hear that? New boy is one of your neighbors!”

Nicaise groaned and stalked back to his seat. “Great, thanks for introducing him to the witch, Kallias.”

“Witch? That’s a little harsh,” said a light-brown haired boy next to Kallias. 

“And a little hypocritical, coming from Skull Boy,” said a new, female voice from one of the farther tables. As she came closer, Laurent could see her resemblance to Gia – light brown skin, brown eyes, and straight dark hair cut into a messy bob around her sharp-featured face. She grinned at him when she reached him and held out a (much cleaner) hand. “My name’s Vannes, but you can call me ‘witch’ if you prefer.”

Laurent smiled back. “I think I’ll stick with Vannes unless you prove genuinely witchy.”

She laughed, delighted, and before he could protest was tugging him over to her table. “So, you’re from Blackpond? Don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

“Near Blackpond,” Laurent corrected. “A little east of there.”

She nodded and patted the bench beside her. He sat down hesitantly. “Can’t believe Nicaise got a partner in crime. Never thought I’d see the day.” Vannes gave him a sympathetic look and raised her cup. “Here’s to hoping he doesn’t murder you within the first week.”

Laurent floundered, realizing he had no cup of his own to toast with, and the girl next to him helpfully handed him one. “Thank you,” he said. 

She inclined her head. “Talik,” she said, in reply to his unspoken question. She spoke in Akielon but her voice had a strangely familiar lilt to it.

“Are you Vaskian?” he asked carefully.

Talik’s wide lips lifted. “My mother is.” She let him finish the rest of her drink as Vannes introduced him to the others.

“The two sitting with Nicaise are Kallias and Erasmus; they tend the sheep,” she told him, and when Laurent peered back at them he could see Kallias had an arm around the lighter haired boy. “Yes, those two are lovebirds. Cute at first, just wait a month and it’s insufferable. Not as insufferable as Nicaise though. Brattiest worker in the whole damn place.”

Laurent took the orange Talik offered him gratefully. The sharp citrus scent somewhat dispelled the unwashed bodies smell. “So he doesn’t just hate me?” Laurent asked.

Vannes snorted. “He hates everyone.” She leaned closer to him. “One of the old pig boys tried to flirt with him a few months ago, and Nicaise actually almost killed him.”

Talik nodded solemnly. “Stabbed him with a fork,” she agreed.

Laurent made a mental note to watch Nicaise around cutlery. “I’m not the flirtatious type,” he said. “Nicaise can rest easy.”

“Just do your job and you’ll be fine,” Vannes assured. She pointed out several others – a boy with dark skin and a gentle smile named Isander, the muscular boy next to him named Pallas, an older boy who tended to the cows named Aden, a grinning girl named Diane, a boy with a scar on his cheek named Iphegin, a small boy with dark curls named Delos, a girl named Genevot who was trying to teach Delos a coin trick, and a gaggle of older girls with long names Laurent could not possibly pronounce. 

There were many others, but a bell rang and the workers began clearing their plates, bringing them to the kitchens for the Adrastus’s servers to tend to. Vannes nudged him. “You better go find Nicaise. Good luck, goose boy.” 

Just before she got up to leave, Laurent remembered. “Oh, Vannes – I almost forgot. I think I met your sister yesterday in the market. Gia?”

Vannes’s dark eyes lit up. “Gia, yes! How is she? Staying in trouble, I’m sure.”

Laurent smiled. “She’s fine. She wanted me to tell you hello.”

Vannes patted his shoulder. “Thanks for passing it on, Lykos. See you tonight!”

As Vannes departed with Talik close behind, Laurent wove through the departing crowd of workers, finally coming upon Nicaise just outside. He was waiting impatiently, tapping his birch stick on the ground. “Hurry up,” he said testily, and without waiting started up a narrow path. 

Laurent used his stick to help him climb up the steep hill, and only caught up to Nicaise once the ground had leveled out again. Around them, Laurent could hear the mutterings of animals – sheep, pig, chicken, goat – it was hard to discern which was which with their sheer numbers. 

Nicaise unlocked the door to a low structure, and the jabber of housed geese immediately greeted them. Laurent was dismayed to realize their language was different from swan – he could not pick out a single word.

Nicaise folded his arms and eyed Laurent doubtfully. “You ever kept geese before?” Laurent shook his head and Nicaise rolled his eyes. “Great, well, stay behind me and they might not kill you. The ganders nearly bit the knees off the last boy who crawled from the forest looking for a city job. Didn’t last long.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Laurent said, unsure if he was serious or not.

“I don’t care if they bite off your kneecaps. I’m just telling you.” Nicaise opened the pen. 

Geese were smaller and far less grand than swans, with shorter necks, larger heads, and ungainly feet and bills as bright as the orange Talik had given him. They were a simplified and unlovely version of swans in Laurent’s opinion, especially when a fat gander stepped out of the pen with a loud honk and smacked Laurent’s knee with his bill. Startled, Laurent stumbled back, half-falling, and the gander took that as his cue to attack, rushing forward with a hiss and wings held low to the ground, a flash of teeth as he lunged for Laurent’s ankle. 

Nicaise caught the gander’s neck with his crook. “Are you going to help, or just cower there?” Laurent straightened up quickly, keeping a wide berth between himself and the still-hissing goose. Nicaise began to lead the geese away, grumbling under his breath. 

It was several long, bruising minutes to the pasture gate, and Laurent struggled to keep the geese from drifting, quickly figuring out that while fifty geese were too many for one boy, they were even worse for two boys when one had no idea how to herd geese. Nicaise whistled and clicked his tongue at the geese from his position in the rear of the gaggle, while Laurent kept somehow finding himself in the middle of many geese who all wished to bite him. It was…not ideal.

When they finally reached the pastures, it became easier. The geese’s necks straightened, their beady blue eyes fixed on the endless grass and sparkling stream ahead. Nicaise led them through the archway and Laurent counted them as they passed. 

“Forty-seven,” he told Nicaise. “Shouldn’t there be fifty?”

Nicaise shrugged defensively. “They were missing before. I’ve been alone with this lot for a week. Besides, what do you expect me to do when three go missing but there’s forty-seven off in every direction? Like to see you do better.” And with that, he stalked off to sit in the shade of the birches along the stream.

Laurent had little desire to sit anywhere near Nicaise, so he picked a spot under a lone beech tree in the middle of the goose pasture, near the small pond where many of the geese congregated, honking joyfully and flapping their clipped wings in the warm sunshine. It was not a broad pasture, but very long, bordered by hedges beyond which Laurent saw glimpses of sheep and perhaps cows. He wished he could see the horses.

He wished he could see Falada. Laurent leaned his head back against the smooth gray bark and sighed. The ache in his chest was different from the one in his ribs – it was longing, he supposed, concentrated to a degree that caused physical pain. He missed Falada, but more than that, he missed speaking with him, missed the voice in his head that had become nearly as familiar as Auguste’s. He hoped Falada was happy, well-fed on oats and hay in clean, royal stables.

If he was not dead. And if he was, how could Laurent find out without getting killed himself?

The day passed slowly and monotonously, and Nicaise stayed on his far end of the pasture, out of sight amidst the trees. Laurent watched the geese, and tossed them some blades of grass which they snapped up eagerly, trying to listen to their language to no avail. There was no break for lunch. Laurent didn’t know what he’d expected – an hour off for tea? 

When the sky darkened to a burnt orange, Nicaise called out to him and they began the arduous process of gathering up the geese. It was easier herding them back home, as the geese were tired from their outdoor adventures and ready to rest for the night, and by the time they reached the dining hall Laurent was starving. Nicaise said nothing to him before pushing past to grab a plate and join Erasmus and Kallias, who seemed more enthusiastic about eating each other than the food. Laurent skirted them and made for Vannes’s table. 

She wasn’t there yet, and Talik put a finger to her lips when he sat down next to her. “Wait a minute,” she said in a low, amused tone, and Laurent didn’t understand until the door burst open and Vannes stumbled in, hair mussed and eyes wide as an owl’s. “Quick!” she cried, panicked, “Erasmus, Kallius – that sulky old ram… he beat down a hole in his pen and…and he got into my chick coop, and I tried to stop him, but –”

Kallias and Erasmus bolted up, and wordlessly grabbed the nearest crooks and fled the hall.

As soon as they were gone, Vannes’s expression changed, her horrified gasp widening into a sly smile. “But I couldn’t stop him because I was too busy rigging the bucket of oat mush above the door.”

The hall burst into laughter (except Nicaise, who now sat alone and flicked a spoon at Vannes as she passed). Vannes bobbed a mocking curtsy and waltzed over to her bench, trailed by the boys Isander and Pallas who sat with her, chuckling and congratulating her. 

“It was payback,” Vannes explained to Laurent as she nicked a piece of flatbread from Isander’s plate. “Those lovebirds put colored eggs in one of my chicken’s nests for a week, splotchy green and brown like the plague! Poured every medicine I could think of down that poor hen’s throat and even bought witch-charms to lay around the nest until I finally spotted a bit of paint on the hay.” She shook her head fondly. “Besides, the oat mush will give them a reason to bathe together so it’s not all bad.”

Pallas laughed. “I still need to get them back for painting all my spring calves black. Thought they’d been bewitched, too, and that I’d have to explain to the Exalted himself how I’d let some evil spirit taint his cows!”

“Someone should just limit Erasmus’s access to paint,” Isander agreed. 

Vannes shrugged. “He’s a lovely artist, though. If only he used his power for good.”

They laughed some more, eating and enjoying each other’s company, and Laurent found that, surprisingly, he liked this. It was comfortable in a way few things in his life of propriety and etiquette had been. There were no expectations to live up to, no need to prove himself, no real rules to follow. The air was warm and the mood even more so.

About halfway through, Laurent worked up the courage to say, “I’ve never actually been to the city before. Can you tell me…news? What happens here?”

Pallas made a face. “Not much, for us. Same thing day in and day out, except marketdays, which we get off.”

“And festivals!” Isander added. “But there won’t be one ‘til wintermoon.”

Laurent’s heart sank – no break until next marketday. He’d have to wait a month at least to see Falada. 

Another girl, Diane, had heard their conversation and wandered over. “When’s the Prince to be married? There’ll be a festival then.”

“Oh, right you are,” Vannes said. “A week of festivities, so the royals can show everyone just how important they are.”

Laurent fought to keep his expression neutral. “The Prince is be married?” he asked innocently. “To whom?”

“Some yellow-haired boy from Vere. Supposed to be some big turning point, this marriage, the union of Vere and Akielos or whatnot.” Diane huffed. “Suppose he’s a prince too, can’t imagine the Exalted would go for anything less.”

“He is a prince,” Vannes replied, “I laid my very own eyes on his expensive skin.”

Goose bumps prickled on Laurent’s own skin. The workers around them quieted, wanting to hear the tale. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Talik pressed, flicking her arm. “Tell us.”

Vannes grinned. “Right, so, I was walking down to the apothecary about two weeks or so ago, going to get medicine for what I _thought_ was a sick chicken, when all of a sudden the trumpets start blaring and the streets are lined with people. Nobody knew exactly when he was going to arrive, you see, what with them traveling so far and never sending a messenger out ahead.”

The crowd mumbled. 

“Strange lot, those Veretians.” 

“What, they think they’re so high and mighty they can’t even send a letter?”

“Probably. Ever met a Veretian? Not the humble sort.”

Vannes cleared her throat. “ _Anyway_ , they came marching in with twenty men or so on horses, and the prince riding on a big white horse with all the trappings.”

Laurent’s breath caught. _Falada._ He was alive, then, or had been at least. He wanted to beg Vannes for every detail but held his tongue. 

“And I don’t know much about horses,” Vannes continued, “but some folk were talking near me about how it was a cursed good horse and he didn’t know how to ride it right, and probably rode some docile mare from Vere and mounted that fine steed at the last minute for show and all.”

Laurent smiled despite himself. 

Nicaise spoke up. “Nobody cares about the horse. What’d the prince look like?”

Vannes smirked at him. “He’s not for you,” she told him. Nicaise scowled and held up a fork threateningly. She continued. “Handsome, I guess. He had yellow hair, but…less yellow and more of a washed-out brown, like Nicaise’s bathwater.” Nicaise threw the fork like a javelin. It clattered harmlessly to the floor. “And his skin was the color of milk, like he’d never spent a day outside in his life. Very slim, though, laced so tight into that fancy Veretian clothing I don’t think he could even breathe.”

Isander wrinkled his nose. “No wonder he couldn’t ride the horse properly.”

“Oh, and there was the other royal,” Vannes said after a beat. Laurent looked down at his plate, nails digging hard into his thigh. “The prince’s uncle, guess he’s some sort of Ambassador? Anyway, he looked more royal than the prince. No yellow hair, dark like ours and a pointy beard. Smiling at everyone and waving. Seemed decent enough.”

Laurent tasted bile in his mouth. “Who else was with them?” Pallas asked, curious.

Vannes ticked them off on her fingers. “Oh, several guards…rough-looking men, like mercenaries, really. Guess that’s how they do it in Vere.” More judgmental mumbling. “One really big one, scary and scarred with a greasy black mop and a crooked nose. Maybe they’re afraid Akielos won’t take kindly to His Highness.”

Talik sniffed. “Veretians,” she said. “I heard he takes one of his own guards with him wherever he goes, because he doesn’t trust the palace guards.”

Isander chimed in. “I heard he’s never left the palace grounds. Afraid to dirty his tiny Veretian feet on our Akielon stones?”

Diane folded her arms and nodded. “Just stays holed up with his Veretian friends, whispering to each other about how brutish and boorish we are in their whiny accent.”

“That’s how Veretians are,” Pallas said, and everyone agreed with low murmurs and nodding heads. Laurent started to nod his head, too, and then paused. If he was where he was supposed to be, then he would never have met the workers, and he’d be the yellow-haired boy from Vere with the whiny accent and pompous manner. Just then, that seemed a pitiable fate.

The door to the dining hall swung open with force, and in the doorway stood Erasmus and Kallias, gripping their unused staffs with matching expressions of promised retribution. Their heads and clothes were dripping with gray slop. 

“Vannes,” Kallias gritted out, voice trembling with warning, though he was also fighting not to smile. 

“You’re welcome, boys,” Vannes said brightly. “Go wash each other’s backs, will you?” She raised her water mug in salute, and others did too, laughing with contagious good cheer that did not completely die down until the hour for bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of an uneventful chapter but full of introductions! (& I promise Damen will be in ch6.)
> 
> For reference, everybody is younger in this AU - Laurent is 17, Damen is 19, Auguste is 21, Aimeric is 17, Kastor is 28, Jokaste is 20, Nicaise is 14, Kashel is 17, Vannes is 18, Talik is 19, Jord is 25, Pallas is 19, Lazar is 23, Erasmus is 16, Kallias is 17, Isander is 16. WHEW. 
> 
> The hiatus begins now guys, I'm sorry but I promise I will be back with more in 2-3 weeks after my Peru trip! So grateful for your comments and love, they keep me churning out chapters. Enjoy!  
> (p.s. I have plenty of doodles for this fic, if you're interested in seeing 'em I can add them in next chapter.)


	6. Counting Chickens

The days passed for Laurent like sand through an hourglass, frail and crumbling, with the inexorable understanding that time was slowly running out. In Arles the snow would already be knee-deep, but in Ios the air was crisp with only the first hints of a coming chill. Laurent had never thought he would actually miss Vere’s blizzards and ice, but he found himself longing for them at times as he sat under his beech tree in the Akielon heat. 

He often listened to the birds in the boughs above him and found comfort in their chatter, eavesdropping on nesting doves and noisy warblers and colorful kingfishers and little quail dashing past him through the tall grass. The birds of Akielos were strange and familiar all at once, slightly differing in coloring and calls, but their words were much the same. _Food. Home. Family. Danger._

It may have been repetitive and simple, but it calmed Laurent to listen nonetheless. It was better than listening to the geese, whose language he still couldn’t make heads or tails of. Geese were so much louder than swans, and all their prattling, hissing, honking and squawking meant nothing to him. 

Perhaps it was for the best that he did little during most of the day, for it gave his ribs much-needed time to heal. By the end of his first week as a goose boy, the bruising had faded to a light yellow stain speckled with lavender, and it no longer hurt to bend over or run. The bruises on his legs and ankles, however, grew worse by the day as the irritated geese made their displeasure about his poor goose-herding skills known. It seemed to amuse Nicaise and he often laughed at Laurent’s pain, but when one of the ganders bit hard enough to draw blood, he found a small bottle on his doorstep that night labeled simply ‘ _FOR PAIN_.’ In it was a sticky greenish salve that soothed the goose bites and bruises immensely. When Laurent tried to approach Nicaise about it the next day, he just shook his head and muttered, “No use to me if you get an infection and die.”

So it was not exactly a friendship, but it was better than nothing. And he’d certainly found friendship elsewhere – in Vannes, who seemed to have taken up the title of unofficial leader of the workers in West Hall. And in her chief cohort, Talik, who simultaneously scared and awed the others. Laurent also found he enjoyed talking to Pallas and Isander, who in turn introduced him to Kallias and Erasmus. From there, it was not difficult to find a place amongst the workers. He still felt like a stranger at times, but was certain that the other workers saw him as nothing more than what he said he was – a poor farm boy from Blackpond. And that was what mattered.

But Laurent’s dreams were plagued with reminders of who he truly was. Orlant, running towards him, a bloodied sword piercing his sunburst livery. Aimeric, smiling at him coldly as he lifted Laurent’s crown to his head. Govart, grabbing for his ankle in the forest. His uncle, ordering his men to kill his own nephew.

Falada, ridden through the white gates of Ios with an imposter on his back. 

Falada, dead by his uncle’s hand, chopped to bloody white pieces in a butcher yard. 

He would awake exhausted most days, soaked in sweat, heart pounding with the lingering echoes of his terror. In the fields, nobles sometimes rode by, and Laurent would be seized with paralyzing dread, huddling in the shadow of his beech tree as they passed, always expecting a flash of yellow hair or a cruel smile. But they never came. The nobles were Akielon, and never spared a glance for the goose boy or his flock.

About halfway through Laurent’s second week, he found one of Nicaise’s strays. 

As they passed through the pasture gate Laurent saw a large speck of white on the pond’s edge, and from a distance thought it might be nothing more than washed-out wood or even a wind-tossed chiton. But then it moved, a slender neck unfurling and orange bill opening, revealing its true nature.

A gander behind him took Laurent’s moment of curiosity as a prime opportunity to bite his rear as hard as he could. Laurent yelped and swatted blindly behind him, hurrying forward into the pasture and ignoring Nicaise’s cackling. The gaggle waddled through the grass aimlessly, and then they too spotted the stray and approached him with familiarity. He squeaked out a greeting and a large goose went to him, prodding his side with her beak and honking.

“Huh,” Nicaise said, pausing a few feet from the pond with a bemused expression. “One of the three missing. Been gone two weeks, that one. Didn’t think he’d be back.”

The gander raised his head at them but seemed too tired to stand. Several feathers hung loose, giving him the appearance of a poorly stuffed pillow. Laurent started forward, intending to check him for wounds, but the large goose at his side turned on him and hissed furiously, snapping her beak and glaring at him with murder in her eyes. 

Laurent sighed, not wishing to add any more bruises to the collection. He raised his hands, backing away to the base of the beech. “Fine, take care of your own. I’ll stay away.”

The day passed slowly as usual, and Laurent spent it lost in daydreams of poorly-formulated and entirely improbable plans of escape or revenge or both. He was jolted out of his thoughts in the late afternoon by a small flicker of movement off to his right. Glancing up, he saw it was the injured gander, abandoned by the rest of his flock as they moved on to better grass in the eastern pasture. He raised his head at Laurent and opened his beak slightly in what could have been a hiss. 

Laurent eyed the gander as he shuffled forward, wings dragging and movements sluggish, hobbling with a few sloppy strides towards him.

Laurent clicked his tongue. “Are you using your last, dying strength to attack me? Now, that would be silly.”

The gander still stumbled closer, and as he reached the crook of Laurent’s folded leg he settled abruptly, lopsided, his body close up against Laurent’s calf and ankle. His head lifted warily.

Laurent held very still. “Hello,” he said. Laurent carefully picked a handful of grass turning to seed and, even more carefully, offered it to him. The gander stared at it, and then lowered his head and nibbled it daintily out of Laurent’s palm. It tickled terribly, and Laurent concentrated very hard on not twitching his fingers. “Hm. I suppose I can feed you, if you promise not to bite me.”

The gander nibbled again, but made no sounds. 

“Since I’ve nothing better to do, I think I shall name you,” Laurent told him. “Augustus, after my brother. Though I’m not certain he would be flattered by the comparison.” The gander blinked at him, and nibbled up the last few blades of grass. “Or perhaps Gus, for short.”

The gander honked gently. Laurent grabbed another handful of grass, and it was only after he had let Gus pick each blade from his palm that he realized he had understood. Gus had asked for more. 

That night when they returned the geese to the pen, Laurent carried Gus under his arm, back to his room. Nicaise made a snide comment but let him, and told Laurent to use the salve on Gus’s leg, which was raked with deep claw marks from some presumably unlucky cat. 

Gus slept that night on Laurent’s bed between his feet, and in the morning Laurent jabbered at him and Gus jabbered back and some of it actually made sense. Laurent fed him pieces of buttered flatbread at breakfast. Pallas joked that the goose boy had found his mate, then asked Nicaise if he had his eye on a particular goose. Nicaise threw a fork at him, and this time it actually found its mark. 

*

Nicaise’s bad attitude did not lessen in the coming days. But the cuts on Gus’s leg were healing, and in the meantime Laurent tried to learn more of the bird’s unique language. It was difficult but he was making progress, and knew plenty of basic goose words, enough for him to start trying to communicate with the flock. Thankfully they seemed less inclined to bite him when he spoke their language, or at least made a valiant attempt to. 

Nicaise, however, was even more inclined to bite than usual. At first he laughed at Laurent’s clucking and honking, but his mood quickly soured as the geese started to respond to the sounds. One morning, they were walking down the cobbled street that led to the pasture, with Laurent making goose sounds and Nicaise rolling his eyes, until he saw something up ahead that made him pause. 

Two street cats were perched on a low wall near the flock, slitted yellow eyes fixed on the nearest goose, haunches wiggling as they prepared to pounce. Laurent was too far away to chase them off, and Nicaise showed no signs of coming to the goose’s aid. 

Desperately wracking his brain for a solution, Laurent found himself making a sound he’d heard the ganders make before, a shrill warning cry that might have meant “dog.” The flock responded immediately, the geese huddling protectively together and the ganders surrounding them with wings raised and heads low to the ground, hissing and lunging at the cats until they sheathed their claws and bounded away. 

Laurent turned on Nicaise as soon as they’d gotten the flock through the gate and into the pasture. “You wanted me to fail,” he snapped. “You would’ve sacrificed a goose to see me be an imbecile. Luckily for the flock, it didn’t work.”

Nicaise sneered, his own anger evident in blotchy cheeks and narrowed eyes. “You think you’re so much better at goose-keeping? Then it’s all yours.” And with that he stalked off to the other end of the pasture, where the trees grew thick and the stream slowed into a pond, and Laurent did not see him for the rest of the day.

But that afternoon, a man rode into the pasture on a large bay horse.

As they neared Laurent, he could see that the man was also large and bay, with skin a shade lighter than the horse's pelt and dark, wavy hair that gleamed in the sunlight like a raven's wing. He was wearing a white chiton, finely made with gold gilt, a red riding cloak pinned hastily to one broad shoulder. He sat in the saddle like an experienced rider who was not experienced with that particular horse. 

The horse was cantering fast towards Laurent's beech tree, and he could clearly see that the man was having difficulty controlling his mount. The horse snorted and tossed its head, foaming a little at the bit, and the man dug his heels in with frustration evident, wrenching the reins back with all his might (which was quite a lot, if the bulging muscles of his arms were anything to go by.

Laurent stood up as the geese began to take notice of the newcomer, flapping their wings warily and waddling to safer grass, free of pounding hooves. Gus, who had been sitting next to Laurent as usual, squawked warily, moving away to protect his mate. The man, still mostly focused on his mount, rode ever closer to the flock. The squabbling geese could not move fast enough. Laurent had to do something.

"Hey!" he shouted, clicking his tongue to get the horse to take notice. "You! Stop!" 

The man glanced over, startled, and tugged on the reins so hard they nearly snapped. The horse shuddered to a stop, ears pricked as Laurent stomped over. The man, who looked rightfully abashed, dismounted and stared at him.

"Who are you?" he asked. Laurent ignored him, and approached the horse. The man backed off as the horse snorted and snapped at him, eyeing Laurent with similar distaste as he came closer. The horse snorted again, louder, tail held high and one hoof pounding the earth in a warning stomp.

"Shhh," he murmured, stepping closer, and the horse huffed rather than snorted, turning his head away and crooking one back leg in a posture of absolute indifference. Laurent almost smiled – Falada sometimes did the same, playing at not caring in order to get what he wanted. Laurent could play the same game, and looked away also, pointedly ignoring the horse until, several moments later, a soft velvet muzzle nosed at his bare shoulder curiously.

Laurent did smile then, looking up and stroking the horse's neck lightly, letting his touch spread across his withers and legs, rubbing him down gently on the right side. As he approached the horse’s mounting side, the bay stiffened and Laurent made quiet nickering noises, soothing things mares murmured to their foals in times of distress. The bay responded with deep noises in his throat that were less words and more laughter, or perhaps approval. Laurent neared the reins. 

The man made as if to come closer and the bay tensed again, head swinging towards him, alert. The man, reluctantly, stopped. 

Laurent glared at the man, stroking the bay’s shoulder until his strong muscles loosened again. "That's right, calm down." The horse slowly relaxed, ears flicking towards his voice and body losing its tension. "Good boy." He pranced a little in place, exhaling in a warm, heavy gust of clover scent, unlocking its legs and turning his proud head to Laurent. “Look at me,” Laurent murmured, and the horse did, liquid brown eyes fixed on his unblinkingly. “Some riders are beneath you, aren’t they? I want to be your equal. I want to know you.” 

The horse made the chuckling sound again, deep and rumbling, and shifted his weight to the left, assenting. 

The man's eyes widened as Laurent took the reins. "What are you doing?"

"Watch and learn," Laurent retorted, and, still murmuring to the horse, swung himself into the saddle and urged him into a canter. 

The horse responded beautifully to Laurent's slight nudges and firm hand, wind incarnate under him as they picked up speed, thundering across the pasture and away from the geese, who honked as if they'd won some victory. The bay reminded him of Falada, a stallion bounding over the earth with unchecked strength, muscles rolling under a shining pelt and under Laurent's thighs where they gripped his heaving sides. He felt free and powerful and even royal for the first time in a long time.

But then he saw the man, panting and running just behind them, waving his hand and shaking his head. "Wait!" he shouted, face flushed and hair wild.

Reality came crashing back down and Laurent wheeled the horse around to a halt, quickly dismounting and backing away from both the man and the horse.

The man was still staring. "You can't just...you can't just _steal_ my _horse_!"

Laurent folded his arms, embarrassed but also irritated. "That's not your horse. You barely know how to ride it."

The man blinked. He looked even more shocked by Laurent telling him off. He cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. "Fair enough," he said. "So it's not my usual horse. But it's supposed to be, and therefore I must learn how to ride it, so I thought to practice out here where no one could laugh at me. But it seems I'm still not safe from ridicule." He smiled ruefully. It was, Laurent noted, a very nice smile. And a very nice face. In general, the man looked...very nice.

Laurent frowned at him. "Yes, well, it was more of a lesson in proper riding than mockery. You needn't ride the poor beast like a brute."

The man raised his eyebrows. "A brute." He seemed amused by this. "You just called me a brute." Perhaps even a little delighted. The man sighed. "Listen, you're right. I can't ride it, and as you just showed, you very much can. So it should be yours."

Laurent had not expected that. "Excuse me?"

He nodded earnestly. "Truly, it's yours. I can arrange for it to be sent to your home at once."

Laurent turned pink and looked down. "I...I thank you, sir, but I have not the space to keep a horse. I am but a servant, a field worker. I tend to the geese."

The man opened his mouth, then closed it. "Oh. _Oh._ You...I mistook you for a noble picnicking, or perhaps a...forgive me." He bit his lip. "I nearly trampled your geese, didn't I."

Laurent nodded. "But I stole your horse, so. We are even."

The man smiled. "I suppose so." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Damen. I work as a guard. In the palace."

Laurent took his offered hand gingerly. It was large and brown and calloused and his own hand felt small and weak clasped in it. "My name is Lykos," Laurent told him. It was the first time he felt guilty for the lie, and he did not know why.

"Lykos," Damen repeated with a wide grin, shaking his hand enthusiastically. "Little wolf. It fits."

Laurent yanked his hand away, suddenly feeling cornered. Damen was a large man, a palace guard, and Laurent was a lowly servant alone in the pasture. He swallowed hard and backed up a few steps. "I should return to my geese," he said shakily.

Damen watched him go, expression crestfallen. "Of course," he said. "Lykos. It...would please me to see you again."

"Would it," Laurent said. His voice came out strange, breathy.

Damen nodded hopefully.

But Laurent shook his head. "I must leave," he repeated, firmer, turning and walking away as fast as he could, half-expecting a large hand to clap down on his shoulder at any moment. But the palace guard called Damen let him go, and Laurent did not see him the next day, nor the day after that. 

*

On the third day, it rained, a heavy storm that threatened to break the thin walls of Laurent’s room and pounded against the window pane like the bay’s hooves. Laurent lay in bed for some time, sheets tangled around his legs, watching the quicksilver flood of water on glass, absently stroking Gus’s wing when he shifted and rustled against Laurent’s hip. His orange bill picked at the wrinkles in Laurent’s wool blanket, mock-grazing, picking at balls of lint as if they were dandelion seeds. 

_It is raining,_ Gus said, and Laurent repeated it back at him. Gus continued to pick at the lint. 

_Is it morning?_ Laurent tried, but Gus showed no sign of hearing or understanding. _Is there sun in the sky?_ he reiterated. Gus blinked at him, uncomprehending, and ruffled his wings. 

Laurent sighed, sitting up. _Are you hungry?_

Gus perked up. _Yes._

Laurent shook his head fondly, slipping out of bed and carefully making his way across the cold stone floor. Gus waddled eagerly after him, a piece of lint still hanging from his bill. Laurent dressed and wrapped his hair up, bundled Gus up in his arms, and made a mad dash to the dining hall. The world around him was a blur of water slanting down and soaking the earth, turning the fields and paths alike into slick muddy pools. The sky above was gray and black, with a faint light smudge on the horizon that could have been the sun or the moon. 

When Laurent safely reached the hall, the wind slamming the door shut behind him and leaving him dripping on the threshold, there were several other sleepy workers there, all unsure of the exact time. Adrastus must have prepared some informal breakfast, for many had bowls of porridge or stew, and all sat quietly snacking and talking, sprawled out on the narrow wooden benches or slumped against the walls. None seemed keen to work.

As Gus was shaking the water from his feathers, Laurent found Nicaise at his usual table by the door, listlessly eating a piece of toast. Erasmus and Kallias were nowhere to be found – Laurent didn’t want to know. “Are we going to the fields today?” he asked.

Nicaise took a large bite and chewed slowly. Laurent folded his arms and waited. “Maybe,” he said with a shrug after he had swallowed.

Laurent was saved by Vannes, who tugged him off to where she was playing a game of pick-up-sticks with Talik and Pallas. “Don’t mind Nicaise. The kid’s been in a sour mood all morning. You’ll see how it goes – Adrastus only has so many rain cloaks, so we go out a few at a time to feed our animals. Most of the time we spend waiting out the storm in here, though.”

Pallas nodded enthusiastically. “Raindays are almost as good as marketdays.” He accidentally knocked over the pile of sticks. Talik glared at him, and carefully went about rebuilding it. 

When Kallias and Erasmus returned from their sheep (and some canoodling, judging by their rumpled hair) two games later, Nicaise and Laurent took their oiled cloaks and went out to the goose pens. Gus followed, splashing through puddles and squawking about the cold wind, but was otherwise undeterred by the weather. His leg was healing nicely, then. Nicaise brought a few armfuls of damp clover and dry corn from the feed barrels to the pen, and Laurent brought enough water from the well to last them the day. He left Gus there, and hurried back to the hall with Nicaise to pass on their cloaks.

The rain did not abate all day, and the only light came from lightning strikes that shook the hall to its foundations and made the workers huddle together with nervous chatter and shaky hands as they played games and ate. Laurent sat apart from the others, beside the crackling fire, gazing out the long windows and wondering what would be left when the storm ended, wondered if the land would be eroded and erased in its wake, if the trees might be stripped to skeletons bare of leaves and bark. He wondered if it might do the same to him if he stood there, letting it soak and beat down upon him until it had worked him down to his very core. He wondered what that core might be.

Tomorrow was marketday. Laurent had been in Ios a month, and he was still a goose boy. It was difficult to believe, but as he looked down at his hands, once clean and uncalloused, now rough and lined with grime under his nails that never went away no matter how hard he scrubbed; Laurent had a sinking feeling that he would be a goose boy for many months more.

Yet he had been as bold as a king with that rider, that Damen; he had felt a sense of self-assurance and authority that had been absent for so long. And he had not been chastised for it – the strange Akielon had actually wanted to _give him the horse._

Thinking about Damen was a dangerous train of thought, though, because Laurent’s mind drifted unconsciously to more than their conversation. He could not help but remember Damen’s hands gripping the reins, so large and strong that the straps seemed thin and flimsy in their grip. Or the fluid grace of his body as he had dismounted, or the easy way he smiled, or the spark in his warm eyes when he spoke to Laurent. He had been so…so open. So unguarded. So earnest. He wouldn’t last a day in Vere.

But they were not in Vere.

Laurent face was hot, and not just from the fire. He dug his nails into his palms, and glanced around the room. Everyone was absorbed in a game or conversation, and all the oiled cloaks hung on their hooks on the wall, out of demand. Laurent thought of taking one and going to check on the geese, to converse with them in their cryptic, clamorous language. Or he could go back to his room, to lie on his cot and try not to think of palace guards with wild horses. And fail, probably.

And hide, Laurent realized. Always he wanted to hide. He had to stop hiding – if he wanted to have any chance of facing King Theomedes again, he would have to do it with a horde of people behind him. As Kashel had said, he had to make his own allies; allies his uncle could never take from him.

He stood, and made his way across the room, to where Vannes and Talik were sitting; talking in low tones. Laurent drew back, unsure if he was intruding, but Vannes shook her head and scooted over, patting the bench beside her. “Lykos,” she greeted, lips curving with the ghost of a smile. “Join us, will you?”

Laurent sat. Talik nodded at him. “Hello,” she said. “You are missing your goose, goose boy.”

“He’s with his kind,” Laurent replied. “I thought he might be lonely here.”

“Are you lonely here?” Talik asked. “Never seen anyone look at a fire so sadly.”

Laurent frowned. “I was just…” He swallowed. “Remembering home.”

The girls nodded in sympathetic understanding. “I’ve always loved watching fire,” Vannes told him. “It looks alive, doesn’t it? Like it’s dancing, or beckoning. You ever think that fire is a friendly thing?” She sighed. “Once I start looking, it’s so hard to look away.”

Laurent bit his lip. “Yes,” he murmured, “yes, I think I know what you mean.” He was glad, secretly, that he had found another who saw language in mute things.

Talik blinked. She was staring at his chest. “Where did you get that?” she asked, sharp.

Laurent glanced down, startled. The pendant had slipped free of his shirt. “Oh,” he said, hurriedly tucking it away. “It’s just –”

Talik caught his wrist. Laurent froze. “It is a protection amulet from Vask.” She tilted her head. “It contains blood. Whose?”

Laurent swallowed, wrist twitching in her grip. “My…my brother’s. He’s…he married a Vaskian woman.”

Talik released his wrist and slipped a finger below her own neckline, withdrawing a similar pendant. She tapped its stained glass surface lightly. “My mother gave me one before I left. Said it would keep me safe. Help me belong.” She peered at him curiously. “Why did your brother give it to you?”

“Same reason,” Laurent replied. “My brother…was afraid I might get hurt here.”

Vannes frowned. “Nice thought, but I doubt a protection amulet would stop Forest boys from getting hurt here. Sure wouldn’t have helped Nicaise.” Talik tensed and gave her a sharp look.

Laurent looked from one to the other. “What happened to Nicaise?”

“Shhh!” Talik hissed, glancing furtively at Nicaise’s table. It was some distance away and he was playing a loud round of cards with Kallias and Isander, but she still seemed certain he could hear them. “Nobody talks about it if they want to keep their tongue.”

Laurent looked at Vannes for support. She hesitated. “Talik’s right…it’s…you don’t want to know. Half the workers don’t know, anyway.”

“They don’t work with him every day,” Laurent retorted. “I want to know.”

The two girls had some silent conversation with their eyes, which ended when Talik folded her arms and muttered, “Fine. Tell him. But I won’t be involved.”

Vannes sighed deeply, keeping her voice very low. “When Nicaise first came here, he was only twelve. Not the youngest we’ve gotten, but he acted like such a little brat. Always trying to suck up to everyone to get things. Well…a few months in he made friends with one of the nobles who visited the goose pasture back then, and at first the noble just gave him gifts, you know, like sweets and extra food and nice clothes and such. He would always brag about them. We all hated him for it.”

Talik grimaced, and stared hard at the tabletop. Laurent’s gut twisted knowingly. 

Vannes’s hand curled into a fist. “Then he started showing up with bruises. Kids bruise so easy, you know, and with his fair skin…” She made a disgusted noise. “On his neck, mostly, but once or twice he had a black eye. He still got gifts, but he stopped bragging. A month after the bruises started, when Nicaise could barely walk enough to herd the flock, the other goose boy at the time finally investigated. Found them in the woods together and set the geese on the noble. Noble never came back, Nicaise got the other goose boy fired, and that’s that.”

Laurent exhaled unevenly. The image of the bottle of salve on his doorstep took on new meaning. So too did the image of Damen in the pasture, asking to see him again. Vannes was watching him carefully. When Laurent found his voice, he asked, “Does that sort of thing happen…often?”

“On that scale? No,” Vannes assured him. “But that doesn’t mean it’s easy for us Forest folk. Most of the city folk think themselves better, and see us as primitive and dumb, like animals. With nobles it’s even worse.”

“What about palace guards?” Laurent asked.

Vannes made a face. “Just as bad, I’d wager.” She frowned. “Why, has one been giving you trouble, Lykos?” Her fist tightened. 

“No,” Laurent lied, not quite knowing why. “No, it’s just that there are a few who ride through the pasture occasionally.”

“Hm,” Vannes said, but did not press the issue, and turned the conversation to a lighter topic. 

Talik, though, looked at him for a while after with a line between her thick brows, unconvinced. 

Later, when the fire was growing low, someone added several logs and the resultant _pop!_ made everyone jump, laughing in the aftermath. Vannes gazed at the flames longingly as they licked at the fresh kindling. Talik grinned. “Don’t stare too long. Someone might think you’re a real witch.”

Vannes waved a hand. “Oh, let them. Being a witch would be better than a chicken keeper.”

“Crazy,” Talik chuckled, going to grab a glass of cider from the suddenly crowded serving counter. 

Vannes tucked her hand under her chin and glanced at Laurent, lips quirked. “She doesn’t get it. I think you do, though. You didn’t laugh at me when I told you about how the fire feels alive.”

Laurent hummed, looking at the flames reflected in her eyes, shining like round black hearths. “Sometimes,” he admitted, “I think I feel the same thing, but with the wind. Like it’s…tugging at my ears, trying to speak in a desperate rush, but I can’t hear it.”

Vannes’s lips parted. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, it’s exactly like that.”

Laurent looked away, suddenly shy. “There’s a story my mother used to tell me, about…well, it was about a lot of things, but mostly it was about words in the wind.”

Vannes moved to the bench opposite him and leaned closer. “You better tell me that story, Lykos, or I swear I will pester you about it ‘til next marketday.” Before Laurent could protest, she called to another girl nearby, Genevot. “Hey, Gen. Lykos is telling a story.”

Genevot came closer, intrigued, and Vannes’s words must have carried because several other workers gathered round. Laurent flushed, curling his hands in his lap. Vannes nudged him. Laurent tried to remember exactly how his mother had told it, and could not. All he had were the images. The words, then, were his own. He took a deep breath and began.

“It goes like this. In a mountain forest far away, there was a beautiful nymph with golden hair named Echo who loved to talk, and always had to have the last word in any argument.” 

“Sounds like you, Nicaise,” Kallias teased. Nicaise’s hand jerked towards the nearest fork.

Erasmus kicked them both lightly. “Hush. Listen to the story.”

“Echo also loved to sing, and as the sun set every night, her lovely voice would carry through the trees, down the slopes of the mountain to a powerful tree nymph, a Dryad, who heard her and seethed with jealousy. But as time passed the Dryad met a handsome youth who hunted in those woods, and forgot her jealousy as she was blinded by love. The youth’s name was Narcissus and his beauty did not go unnoticed by the other nymphs, who easily enticed him away from the Dryad, for he was as shallow and selfish as he was beautiful. The Dryad searched for him, suspicious, but Echo, who loved Narcissus most and feared the nymph would hurt him, distracted her with her incessant talk, detaining the nymph until the others could make their escape.”

The workers shifted uneasily, fearing the inevitable consequences, yet all watched with rapt attention. Laurent cleared his throat, emboldened by their interest.

“When the Dryad discovered Echo’s deceit, she cursed her, saying, ‘Your clever tongue shall no longer spin stories and songs of your own. You shall still have the power to speak the last word, but never the first.’” 

“An echo,” Talik murmured. 

Laurent inclined his head. “And as for Narcissus, the Dryad cursed him more harshly, declaring that he would be unable to look away from his own reflection in the pool where she found him, falling in love with it until he wasted away. So it was that Echo watched helplessly as Narcissus spent day after day beside the pool, gazing at his face in the water longingly. Once, he said to his reflection, ‘Let us join one another,’ and Echo could do nothing but repeat it back to him, going to him where he knelt and throwing her arms about him in desperation. But Narcissus pushed her away and cried, ‘I would rather die than let you have me!’ Echo could only whisper, ‘Have me,’ before he banished her back to the forest.”

Vannes sniffed and swiped a hand across her face hastily. Even Nicaise was listening, blue eyes wide and luminous in the candlelight.

“Despite the rejection, Echo still loved him, and watched as Narcissus died slowly, consumed by a love that could not be. He lost the color and vigor which had once made him so beautiful, and when he was but a ghost of his former self, he trailed his fingers through the water of the pool and uttered his last words, saying, ‘Oh marvelous boy, I loved you in vain, farewell.’ As he drew his last breath, Echo said in a voice too soft to hear, ‘Farewell.’ When his body turned to dust, so did her own, until there was nothing left but her voice, echoing the voices of others in the mountain wind.” Laurent paused. “As for Narcissus, where he had lay grew a beautiful white flower bearing his name, which still grows near pools on mountains to this day, where it can always hear Echo’s voice.”

The hall was quiet. The fire filled in the silence, snapping as embers broke free and drifted across the hearth. 

Vannes leaned back against the table. “Gia used to make me crowns out of those flowers. Never knew they had a story behind them.”

Erasmus leaned against Kallias’s shoulder. “I wish the ending was happier,” he sniffled. “I wish they got to stay together.”

Kallias wrapped an arm around him. “They did,” he replied. “In a way.”

“I don’t get it,” Nicaise grumbled. “Echoes don’t come from lovesick nymphs. What a stupid idea.”

“Then where do they come from?” Vannes retorted. Nicaise scowled. “There, see, you don’t know for certain that the story’s not true.” She put a protective hand on Laurent’s shoulder. “I’d like to see you tell a better one.”

Nicaise rolled his eyes. “Well, it just doesn’t make sense. It’s a strange way of explaining those things. Why tell it like that?”

Laurent looked down at his hands. “I don’t know. I just thought it was beautiful, even if it didn’t make much sense. And it is strange, but my mother said that we must tell strange stories, because if we don’t, when something strange happens we won’t believe it.”

Nicaise rolled his eyes and stalked off, but everyone else nodded. Genevot rose and yawned. “Well, you better tell another story tomorrow, Lykos, or I might not believe my dreams tonight.”

The room filled with soft sounds of agreement. _Tell a story tomorrow night, every night._ Vannes smiled at him, and more than a few of the workers brushed him in a friendly way as they passed, with touches he would have once shied away from. But here, now, they were touches of approval, of kinship, of understanding. They were touches given to one who belonged.

Laurent was among the last to leave the dining hall, out into the after-rain air, which was heavy and sweet. He felt a little lonely as he wove his way through the little houses without Gus to keep him company, skirting the puddles and the worst of the mud, pausing in front of his own window. It had been turned mirrorlike by the moonlight peeking through the dissipating clouds and the rain still clinging to it. 

He had not looked at himself for a very long time, and studied his reflection carefully, trying to discern the state of his eyebrows. True to Gia’s word, the thornroot seemed to be lasting the nine weeks she’d promised – it had faded a little, but was still a dark brown with not a hint of gold. He would not have to buy more tomorrow…but perhaps he should, just in case. Just to be safe. 

His face looked different than he’d remembered, which was an odd thing, but it was true. The headscarf emphasized the curves of his face, making it look rounder, and paler too against the dark blue fabric. And though he had less to eat here than he’d ever had before, he swore he looked healthier, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright, lips chapped but curving up naturally in a way they never had in Arles. 

Laurent lifted a fingertip to his nose. There were freckles there, sepia speckles from long days in the sun, where even the shade of the beech tree couldn’t entirely shield him from the sun. Auguste had always tanned, like their father, but Laurent had only ever burned. 

His mother had freckles, though. He remembered tracing them with his little fingers, asking her where they came from. She had laughed and told him they were marks left by the sun’s kisses, and when Laurent had frowned and asked why the sun never kissed him, she’d hugged him tight and told him, “Spend enough time with it and it will, my little prince.”

Laurent smiled at the memory and started at the expression reflected back at him in the glass. It still didn’t look quite like the face he remembered, especially when he was smiling. But…it was not bad. He was healthy, and happy considering the circumstances, and when he stared back at himself he could not see any of the hurt and fear his uncle had inflicted. 

Laurent did not have the gift of people-speaking, the power to convince and control laced in every word that fell from his lips. He was not a great warrior or hero, nor could he scheme and deceive quite like his uncle. But he had survived this far. He was alive, and more than that, he was thriving. He, the bookish, reclusive Prince of Vere, had told a strange story to a captivated room full of listeners. He had herded fifty head of geese. He had ridden a palace guard’s horse better than the guard. He had succeeded in disguising himself as Lykos of Blackpond. He had made friends here, and knew he would continue to do so. 

He was surprised by the pride he felt just then, and turned away from the window, giggling to himself giddily. “If you’re not careful, you’ll turn into a flower too,” he scolded. The wind brushed past him as he opened the door, a cool draft that ruffled his hair and clothes. He could have sworn it whispered something, a breathy sound against his cheek, but then it was gone, swirling away, lost in the silent night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damen's here at last! there will likely be more ~action~ next chapter.
> 
> My trip to Peru was so incredible! Sorry for the hiatus but also not sorry bc WOW. Highly recommend going to Peru if you ever get the chance; I went to Machu Picchu/Cuzco for most of the trip and it's one of my favorite cities ever. Also, when I went up north for the actual work part of the trip (I spent a week building houses and damn my biceps are feelin' it. They'll never match Damen's tho.) I found an actual flock of geese who were...uh, well, if not inspiring, then at least very loud and intimidating. Geese are scary, yo.


	7. Silly Goose

Marketday dawned bright and clean, the heavy rain of the day before evident only in the muddy earth and occasional puddle. The Akielon sun beat down upon Laurent mercilessly as he slipped out the door, headscarf wrapped tight and hat tossed on as an afterthought. He was wearing his spare chiton, which was not a plain white like the other one, but rather a faded blue trimmed with daffodil yellow. Laurent hoped it would help him blend in with the other bright hues of marketday rather than make him stand out to the Veretian guards who were surely waiting for him.

Yes, Laurent had resigned himself to the unfortunate fact that going to find Falada might be walking right into his uncle’s trap. His uncle would easily guess that since Laurent hadn’t visited the stables already, he was unable to – except on marketday, when there was no work and fewer guards. Then again…perhaps his uncle didn’t know he was in the city at all. Perhaps he thought Laurent had tried to return to Vere instead.

But Laurent doubted it.

So he stuck to the shadows as he made his way out through the same door Ancel the pageboy had led him through on that first day. It seemed so long ago, yet he knew it was hardly a month that had passed since then, a month spent hiding. Laurent pulled his scarf tighter, walking along the edges of the palace courtyards, past excited servants and nobles who exclaimed at the warm weather and chatted brightly about what they were going to buy.

Laurent felt a stab of envy at their carefree jollity, able to go on a stroll to market without hiding their hair and dying their eyebrows and ducking behind the bushes every time a guard passed by. He avoided the sunlight as if it would burn him, as if he were some sort of vampire who would burn as soon as it touched his skin. Laurent almost wished he _were_ a vampire – it would make facing his uncle far easier. But such creatures were even more myth than nature-speakers. In Akielos, vampires were called vryokolakas – as a child Laurent had read frightening stories about them rising from their graves and luring others to their death through dreams. But now he knew that the truly evil monsters were not found in old legends.

As he neared the gate to the stables, Laurent wondered if he might see Damen, and what he would do if he did. Run, probably…or perhaps use the guard’s obvious interest in him to his advantage. The thought made him a bit sick. But at this point, he would do almost anything to see Falada again, to _hear_ him. And if that meant he would have to feign attraction to that guard, then…

The gate to the stables was open when he found it, and a few guards and errand boys loitered in the shadow of the wall but none of them were Damen or Veretian, and they simply nodded at him as he passed, acknowledging him as a fellow laborer. It was too easy to get in. Laurent feared that finding Falada would not be so simple.

The horse fields were cut into the back of the palace hill, acres and acres of lush grass upon which several steeds grazed, though none of them white. The stables themselves were built in a stately row at the head of the pastures, and Laurent ducked into the nearest one, immediately accosted by the familiar scent of horse and hay, jogging as casually as possible down the line of stalls, searching for a proud white head among them. No luck. He moved onto the next stable, which had fewer horses and no workers, calling out in his head, _Falada, Falada._ But there was no answer.

Halfway down the row he saw a white mare sleeping and for a moment his heart leapt, but then he took in the shape of her rounded belly and shorter mane and saw that this was not the horse he knew. Laurent had just reached the end of the far row when hushed voices in his own accent filled the stable.

“In here, you idiot, unless you want all of Akielos to hear us.”

Laurent, heart in his throat, ducked into the nearest stall, pressing his body against the straw and holding his breath. The voices were on the far end of the stables, but echoed on the high roof, and Laurent had no doubt that any sound he made would echo just as clearly.

“Now listen to me, before the Ambassador himself has to scold you. Now is not the time for shirking your duties and mucking around. The prince has not yet won over that damned stubborn Akielon, you know.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic. Stubborn or not, Damianos is a man who thinks with his cock half the time.”

“And you’re not?” Laurent recognized the angrier voice as Guymar’s, the man who had killed Orlant. His hands curled into fists.

“Shut it! My point is that the prince will sway him before long and that’ll be that. Once Aimeric is in his bed –”

There were sounds of a scuffle, ending with a loud _thud_ of a body slammed against a hard surface. When Guymar spoke it was low and urgent. “But he’s not there yet, is he? This isn’t over. There’s still a marriage to take place before it’s official. And don’t forget we still have that little witch running all over the woods or _who knows where_ , likely to tattle and make things more difficult for us. That’s not even including the fact that Vere is likely to send emissaries and older brothers and such nuisances, and the Ambassador’s plan to deal with _that_ has not yet been enacted.”

There was a pause. Then the other man said, lower, “D’you think…the Ambassador’s going to kill his nephew?”

Laurent swallowed, the hay scratching against his cheek. Nearby, a horse shifted, uneasy.

Guymar cursed. “No, he’s going to throw a bloody party for him. Of course he’ll kill him! The brat has caused enough trouble already, and the Ambassador has something particularly nasty planned, I hear. It won’t be an easy death, that’s certain.”

“Oh, c’mon, is he giving the boy to that damn Govart? What a waste –”

“Quiet! The word is he’s giving him to his best men. There, is that incentive enough for you to get your arse out of the ale and shape up? Stay sober for one bloody week and I’ll put in a good word for you. Though after Govart’s done I’m not sure there’ll be much left.”

Laurent’s breathing shallowed, revulsion twisting tight in his chest. On the one hand, he must have truly infuriated his uncle, which was satisfying. On the other hand, he was more terrified then he’d ever been in his life. Unconsciously, his hand went to the amulet around his neck. _I doubt a protection amulet would stop Forest boys from getting hurt here._

He was saved by a new voice. “Hello, sirs,” said an Akielon accent. It was laced with warning.

Guymar cleared his throat. “Yes, good morning.” The two men left.

Laurent let out his breath in a rush, slowly getting to his feet. They were gone. He had not been discovered. There were five more stables to be searched. Laurent shook himself and continued on.  
Halfway to the third stable, a sudden sound split the air, a scream but inhuman. Laurent turned to it – and saw him.

Falada was in a far arena. A stranger rode him, and he bucked, making the sound again – a terrible, savage whinny Laurent had never heard him make before. It was…it was _wrong._ Something was wrong. Laurent approached, his stomach feeling as though a stone had been dropped into it as he got closer; close enough to see the sweat soaking his fine white neck, reins drawn tight against it, eyes rolled back and wild as he bucked again.

There was an audience. Gathered around the arena were stable-hands and well-dressed ladies alike, fanning themselves idly and gasping whenever the stallion came close to throwing off his rider. Laurent wove through them, keeping his head low, until he reached the wooden fence.

_Falada,_ he called. _Falada, what is wrong?_

Falada’s head swung around wildly, and for a moment he looked at Laurent, gaze glassy and panicked, and then the rider was tugging on the reins, trying to get him to make a circle, and Falada just lunged as though he had never had a rider, as though wearing the saddle were torture.

Panic rose in Laurent’s throat like a wild thing of its own. _Calm, Falada, be calm. They might hurt you if you do not tame._

But there was no reply. Falada pounded to the other side of the arena, white hide swallowed up in a cloud of gray dust, and when it cleared Laurent saw that the rider had been thrown, scrambling out of the way of the stallion’s viciously striking hooves, foam splattering the earth as his mouth worked around the bit, bridle dragging through the dirt limply behind him.

Laurent slipped through the fence rails, ignoring the warning of a groom close behind him.

Falada trotted to a halt several paces away, ears flickering towards him, sides heaving from exertion and nostrils flared.

_Falada, remember?_ Laurent tried, stepping carefully forwards, holding his hand out, palm-up. _Do you remember me?_

Falada snorted, stomping one of his hooves, but he lowered his head slightly, stretching out towards Laurent’s palm. Laurent could see that he was trembling, and knew he was, too, filled with the fear that Falada had _forgotten_. Fear that he had forgotten how to reply, or worse, he did not even hear Laurent’s words anymore.

_Falada, I am a friend. All is well. Peace. Calm._

Delicately, Falada shuffled forward, his velvet nose sniffing at Laurent’s palm, and still there was no reply. Laurent ached to go to him, to throw his arms around Falada’s neck and bury his face in his mane and weep for what had been done to them both, as he had done after his mother died. Falada had been the only one to comfort him then. Who would comfort him at the loss of Falada? Laurent clenched his teeth against the sob that threatened to spill free at that thought.

_Easy, easy._ He stepped closer in, and Falada shuddered but did not move away, his skin damp and shuddering under Laurent’s hand as he swept it gently down from chin to withers, brushing the sweaty strands of his mane back. _Friend,_ he whispered. _Oh, Falada…_

Falada jerked away, away from his hands, away from his words, and rose up mightily onto his hind legs, pawing the air. Laurent leapt back, but not fast enough; pain lanced through him as a sharp hoof struck his cheek, sending him stumbling backwards as Falada bolted away. Some stable-boys pulled him back through the fence, shaking their heads.

“You tryin’ to get killed?” one of them snapped. “Get out of here, kid.”

“For a moment there, I thought you had him,” the other boy said, more kindly, leading him away from the arena. “Lemme take a look at that bruise.”

Laurent glanced back, his cheek throbbing. _Falada,_ he said, but the horse just started pacing again, making those wretched sounds. Laurent couldn’t look. He turned back to the boy. “What…what’s wrong with him?”

The boy led him into the nearest stable, fetching a bucket of water and a clean cloth. “He’s got the animal dementia.” He dipped the cloth in water and pressed it to Laurent’s face.

Laurent sucked in a sharp breath, hoping the boy just thought it was from the pain. “He came to you like that?”

The boy frowned, dabbing at the wound and wincing when the fabric came away pink. “Er, not exactly. He’s the Veretian prince’s horse, see, and then he started getting wild and the prince didn’t want to ride him anymore.”

Laurent narrowed his eyes. “Horses don’t just ‘start getting wild.’”

The boy drew back. “No. They don’t.” He wet his lips nervously. “Between you and me, I think those Veretians…did something to him.”

“Something,” Laurent repeated, numbly.

The boy looked away. “The Veretian Ambassador, the prince’s uncle, you know…he visited the stable once, a week ago. Soon as that stallion saw him, he started _screaming._ Almost broke down his stall door trying to escape. And the Ambassador didn’t even _do_ anything. Just stood there and smiled at him.” He shivered. “Never seen anything like it.”

Laurent stepped away abruptly. “Thank you for the…” he gestured at the wet cloth, “help.”

The boy nodded, eying him worriedly. “Best get some proper ice for that before it swells up too bad.”

Laurent nodded (immediately regretting it when his head ached) and turned to go. He paused halfway out. “Do you know what’s going to happen to the horse?”

The boy was quiet for a moment. Then he said, apologetically, “Same thing that happens to all horses who won’t tame.”

Laurent’s blood was roaring in his ears. The image of Falada’s eye before his hoof struck, dull and dark as a cow’s, would not leave his mind. “I see,” he said, and left those blasted stables as fast as his feet would carry him, every pulse of pain from his jaw just adding to his anger and grief. Falada had turned mad.

No. His uncle had turned Falada mad. Had he not taken enough from Laurent already? It was a foolish question – of course not. He would not have taken his fill until Laurent was as broken as his stallion, mad and terrified and at his mercy. Laurent gritted his teeth so hard he tasted blood. He’d like to see his uncle fucking try. A part of him wanted to march into the palace and throttle him right then and there, plan be damned. Or maybe he could rally the geese to storm the palace with him, biting the ankles of all those who dared to cross them with sadistic glee.

Laurent choked on a laugh, short and bitter and a little unhinged, and steadied himself on the nearest wall, swaying slightly. He had crossed through the gate to the stables and stood again in an outer courtyard of the palace, far emptier than it had been earlier that day. He turned his forehead against the cool stone and exhaled, squeezing his eyes shut. “Get a grip,” he muttered. “You are a prince. A _prince_.” He thought of Auguste. What would Auguste do? Something brave and selfless, probably. Laurent sighed. He wasn’t selfless. And he’d just tried to be brave and got kicked in the face for it.

Suddenly, Laurent felt very, very alone.

Then a cool breeze brushed against his bruised cheek, oddly soothing and almost…purposeful? It didn’t feel like a hand, exactly, more like a…tendril. Laurent lifted his head warily. _Hello?_ He felt foolish, speaking when nothing was there.

Nothing he could see, anyway. The wind rustled the dry leaves at the edges of the courtyard, scattering them playfully across the stones. It said nothing, of course, but to Laurent the rasp of leaves on stone almost sounded like laughter. It was more comforting than Falada’s blank gaze, anyway. Again the cool finger of wind stroked his cheek, curling around his ear and tugging at the headscarf.

Laurent scowled and held the scarf on. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he snapped, before realizing he was speaking to empty air. Wonderful. Perhaps he’d gone mad already.

But to his bewilderment, the wind seemed to laugh again, picking up leaves until they fluttered through the air, away from him, in a path he could see. Laurent frowned. “Are you…you want me to follow?”

In reply, the leaves whirled across the courtyard, and through a gate.

Laurent hesitated. Then the wind, growing impatient, swirled up his legs and lifted the chiton none too gently. “Hey!” Laurent yelped, yanking it back down. Either a clement day had suddenly grown windy in one particular courtyard, or it really was trying to communicate…though with inappropriate touching instead of words. “Fine, fine!” He started after the leaves. The wind whooshed approvingly.

The leaves that had swirled through the gate continued to evade him, sending him dashing through several gardens, past some confused ladies with parasols, and straight into a flock of parrots who squawked at him angrily. Ignoring their very strong language, he followed the leaves out through the last gate, and found himself in the city, at the bottom of the palace hill and on the fringes of the market. He narrowed his eyes. “Where are you taking me…?”

It was harder to follow the leaves with so many other people around, and Laurent slowed his pace, not wanting to draw too much attention – his uncle’s men were likely to be about. He passed by stands laden with exotic fruits that smelled divine, and vendors showcasing parrots who were larger, showier, and politer than the ones on the palace. There were plenty of performers, too – acrobats in colorful, skintight clothes, fortune-tellers with their tarot cards and incense, musicians strumming kitharas and lyres, storytellers singing ballads while children accompanied them with reed pipes and tambourines. The wind cared for none of them, it seemed, for it passed by, leading Laurent onwards.

Near the center of the city were the food vendors, and the rich smell of steaming buns, sesame pancakes, and meats wrapped in flat bread made Laurent’s very empty stomach rumble with displeasure. The sounds of the pigeons around him didn’t help at all – their coos were a chorus of _mine, mine, stay away, stay away._ They fought over crumbs and rinds in the street, evidently just as hungry as Laurent despite their relative plumpness.

Then Laurent saw the gallows, and all thoughts of hunger were forgotten at the sight of the two bodies hanging there from their frayed ropes, swaying grimly in the breeze. There was a crowd gathered – the execution must have just happened. Nearby, a small child stared at the corpses with wide eyes, sucking on a sweet. Laurent’s stomach turned. The leaves whipped around a street corner, and he followed them gratefully…

…and collided head-on with Kashel.

She opened her mouth to rebuke him, then recognition filled her eyes and her face froze in a comical expression of shock. “Lykos! What in the goddess’s name are you doing here?” Before he could reply she scooped him up in a bruising hug, then pulled away and eyed him worriedly. “How’re your ribs? Did you find work? You look so thin, well, thinner than usual! And your face –”

“I’m in trouble,” Laurent blurted out, and did not realize how wobbly his voice was before he spoke. “The people who were after me, they…they hurt my friend. And they want to hurt me. They want to _kill me._ ” Breathing was painful; his chest felt tight and hollow at the same time. “I can’t go home,” he whispered. “I can’t go home, and I am so tired of being afraid.”

Kashel’s brow furrowed and she wrapped her arms around him again, gentler, and drew him close to her. Laurent could do nothing but slump against her, burying his face in her shoulder and breathing, in and out, in and out, focus, _focus_. He did not linger long there – Laurent only allowed himself a few long, glorious moments to imagine what it would be like to be safe and known and cared for, and then he pulled away. It was useless to imagine such things when he was so far from attaining them.

“Thank you,” Laurent said, stiffly. “I’m sorry.”

Her brow furrowed further, baffled by his apology, but she did not comment. Instead she said, “Two men found our camp in the Forest. Fair skin, Veretian accents. Asked Halvik about a yellow-haired boy.”

Laurent’s nails dug into his palm. “And what did she tell them?”

Kashel folded her arms. “Oh, she didn’t tell them anything. She gutted them where they stood and left them for the vultures.”

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised. “Good. The men who are after me...”

“Are bad men,” Kashel finished. “I know, Lykos. Halvik knows. And know that if you need our protection, we will give it.” She looked at him seriously. “Do you need it?”

“Not yet,” Laurent replied after a beat. “I…I don’t think they know I’m in the city. I found work tending to the king’s geese. I’m safe there, for now.” It was a lie – he wasn’t safe anywhere as long as his uncle was searching for him, but there was no need to worry Kashel further. Her forehead was creased like his mother’s had often been, a line just above her left brow that betrayed her concern.

Apparently she believed him, because she smiled and patted his shoulder. “I’m glad, faunus. Now…can you stay away from your geese a little longer? Long enough for lunch?”

Laurent’s stomach grumbled loudly before he could answer. He scowled down at it. _Traitor._. Kashel grinned and grabbed his hand, leading him back to the main marketplace and the Vaskian meats.

By the time he left, the sun was low in the west and Laurent’s belly was full to bursting, courtesy of not only Kashel but her old friend Torren and the grumpy warrior Siska. They’d sent him along with another parcel of pork kebabs and directions to their new camp, told in a hushed tone behind a cupped hand.

Laurent held them in his mind like precious jewels, memorizing every word – a day’s ride straight north, take a left at the lake, a right at the big oak, straight until you reach the gorge. The password is _Kejsarinnan._ The Vaskian word for Empress. Laurent remembered Eliska saying it when referring to her mother, months ago…though it felt more like years.

As he made his way back to the field workers’ lodgings, Laurent listened for the wind. More accurately, he _strained_ to hear it, just a hint, to feel again those careful wisps of coolness across his skin, to be given a sign that the wind really had led him to the Vaskians. But the air was still, humid and lifeless, and Laurent fell asleep that night wondering if he’d ever really felt it after all.

*

Gus was still upset that Laurent had left him in the pen for two nights, and as Laurent counted orange beaks passing through the gate to the pasture he made his displeasure known with a loud honk that announced to all he was not going to be sitting on Laurent’s lap that day.

“Lost your true love, have you?” Nicaise said snidely before he retreated to the far side of the pasture as usual. “What a _pity._ ”

“He’ll come around,” Laurent replied mildly. His lack of anger seemed to irritate Nicaise greatly, and he stomped off without another word. Laurent watched him go with an odd feeling of loss. They were still at odds with each other, and Laurent doubted he could do much to fix that. So he went to his beech tree and sat under it, throwing grass to the nearby geese and talking to them when he could. It was idle and boring and Laurent wished he had something more useful to fill his time with.

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind, the sound of hoofbeats thundered towards him. Laurent bolted up, taut as a bowstring, hand gripping his birch stick tightly. It was a man on a dark horse, and he rode directly to Laurent’s tree. Laurent braced himself, fully prepared to flee with his flock or beat the intruder with a stick if it came to that – and then the man got closer and Laurent saw it was Damen.

That did not exactly _relax_ him, but…it was better than who he’d expected. Which was not saying much.

“Goose boy,” Damen called, bright and sure as he reined the horse in and dismounted. “Lykos.”

Laurent leaned against the smooth trunk and eyed him coolly. “Guard.” He did not bother saying his name, and Damen’s face fell a little. But Laurent must not have sounded icy enough, because he took a step closer nonetheless.

Damen cleared his throat. “Uh…your geese are certainly…looking well today.”

“Their teeth are sharp enough to draw blood,” Laurent said pleasantly.

“Charming,” Damen shot back, not missing a beat.

Laurent’s mouth quirked. He nodded to the horse. “Not the bay,” he remarked. “Had enough of looking like a fool?”

“Oh, clearly not, since I returned to see you,” Damen replied, eyes twinkling. Yes, actually twinkling. Laurent did not know how that was even _possible_. “But yes, after my display the other day, it was obvious the beast needed to be handled by a master.” Laurent frowned at the compliment. “This is my usual mount. He’s a stallion, but he’s calmer than the bay, if you can believe it.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “Difficult to find mares large enough for you?”

Damen nodded, not at all offended – and probably entirely aware of how ridiculously huge he was. He patted the stallion’s withers. “His name is Orion. I would offer to let you ride him, but I’m afraid my fragile ego has been bruised enough already by your natural horsemanship.”

Laurent flushed. He felt off-balance. This was…perplexing. The handsome palace guard had returned. He wasn’t supposed to return. Laurent did not know what to do about this. “Why are you here?” he demanded.

“To be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d be here. I came here for two days, and you were gone, and the geese were gone, and I thought somehow I’d made a mistake and gone to the wrong pasture.” Damen shrugged. “But here you are.”

Laurent took a moment to process that. “You…you came here in the rain? And on marketday?”

Damen rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly and Laurent struggled not to fixate on how that threw his arm muscles into high definition. “Yes…poor decision on my part, I was sopping wet and so were the flowers.”

Laurent’s voice pitched helplessly. “ _Flowers?_ ”

Damen looked sheepish again. Then, to Laurent’s absolute _befuddlement_ , he reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a bouquet of wilting wildflowers. "Well, yes, I thought to bring you flowers," Damen said, holding out the pathetic bouquet awkwardly. "But - it rained rather hard, and the ones I had before were ruined, so I just...made do on the way here."

Laurent stared. "Flowers."

Damen’s hands flailed a little. "Uh. Yes? I thought...I don't know, was it foolish to think you liked flowers?"

Laurent continued to stare, disbelieving.

Damen wrung his hands. "Clearly, I am used to my affections being...far better received. This isn't normally this difficult." He flushed. "Not to say that I do this often - I mean, I do, but-" He sighed.

"Your...affections." Laurent raised an eyebrow and took a very obvious step back. He didn't expect to feel bad about the kicked puppy look on Damen's terribly handsome face, but he did.

"Oh," Damen said, the hand full of flowers lowering slowly. "You don't want my affections." Laurent watched him warily. Damen sighed again. "I'm sorry. It was...wrong of me to assume you did."

Laurent blinked at him. Damen turned to go. “Wait,” Laurent said, and Damen froze, glancing back at him with that same dopey, wide-eyed, hopeful look. “What kind of flowers were they?”

Damen furrowed his brow. “Small and bluish?” he tried, shrugging apologetically. “With yellow centers. Forgive me, I’m not much of a florist. But they reminded me of you.”

“Forget-me-nots?” Laurent suggested.

Damen’s eyes lit up. “Yes! Yes, those. Straight from Lady Jokaste’s garden.”

Laurent frowned. “You _stole_ them?”

“What?! No!” Damen cleared his throat. “I am…an acquaintance of Lady Jokaste.”

Laurent eyed him suspiciously. “A palace guard knows the Crown Prince’s lover.”

Damen folded his arms. “Well, not just any palace guard. I’m on the Crown Prince’s personal guard.”

Laurent paused, surprised. “I…see. And the Crown Prince just lets you gallivant off to visit goose boys?”

Damen shrugged, flushing a little. “Normally? No. But the Veretian visitors have kept Damianos-Exalted very busy as of late. He hardly has time to do any gallivanting of his own.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “And what have they kept him busy with?”

“Courtship,” Damen said sourly.

“I take it you don’t approve of this Veretian alliance?” Laurent kept his tone light.

Damen shook his head. “I approve. I just suspect that Damianos-Exalted got more than he bargained for with that Prince Laurent.”

“A handful, is he?”

“Quite,” Damen said, chuckling. “And his uncle is even worse!”

Despite himself, a smile crept onto Laurent’s face. “Oh? Are the rumors about Veretian snootiness true after all?”

Damen let out a dramatic sigh. “Unfortunately. The two of them parade about like peacocks who own the place, fancy clothes and all. Why anyone would need so many _laces_ is beyond me.”

Laurent laughed embarrassingly loud, trying to hide it behind his hand and not really succeeding. But when he looked up, Damen was grinning down at him, dimples and all, and he was still holding those ridiculous flowers and…well. Laurent found it difficult to be intimidated by him then.

And besides…if Damen was telling the truth – and he didn’t seem the type for deception – then he might prove to be a very helpful asset. Laurent would no longer be frustratingly unaware of what exactly his uncle and Aimeric were up to beyond those white marble walls. As long as he played along with –

Laurent stopped himself short. No. To manipulate someone while pretending to care for them was cruel, plain and simple. He would not allow himself to stoop to that level – to his uncle’s level. So…so what if he didn’t pretend? Damen was…certainly not unpleasant to look at, and Laurent was strangely touched by his gift, pitiful and wilting as it was. And so far Damen was not living up to Aimeric’s description of Akielons as brutish animals that mounted whomever they liked. Though he had fulfilled the “bulging muscles” bit rather nicely.

“I had hoped to impress you with the flowers, but by all means, stare at me instead. I’m far prettier. Which…is not saying much, actually.” Damen grinned lopsidedly and held out the motley bunch of wildflowers again.

Laurent flushed and took the flowers hastily. Up close, they weren’t so bad. And there were…a lot. Laurent imagined Damen bent over in the fields, picking these for him, and flushed further. “Ah…thank you.” He didn’t quite know what to do with them, so he set them down on the grass with his birch stick, and when he turned back to Damen the guard was fishing something else out of the saddlebag. A lumpy leather knapsack…? Laurent eyed it quizzically.

“I hope this makes up for the less than satisfactory flowers,” Damen said, opening it and showing Laurent the contents. Apples, dried figs, carefully wrapped bunches of grapes, a warm slab of flat bread, a small parcel of candied nuts, and a glass bottle of olive oil. “It’s not much, but it’s all I managed to –”

“Not _much_?” Laurent repeated incredulously. “This would be a feast in the workers’ hall.”

Damen paused. “Don’t they…feed you?”

Laurent rolled his eyes. “Well, yes, but simple fare, and only breakfast and dinner.”

“Well then,” Damen said, sitting down on the grass under the beech tree and beginning to spread out the food as he pleased, “I shall endeavor to bring you lunch from now on.”

Laurent gaped. “What?!”

Damen shrugged, looking innocently up at him and holding out one of the apples. “Got any fruit preferences?”

Laurent considered his options. He could flat-out refuse to spend time with Damen and accept his fancy palace food, which would mean losing any possibility of knowing what his uncle was up to. Or, he could set aside his pride and hope that Damen’s intentions didn’t go beyond picnics and flowers.

He looked down the pasture, to the woods where Nicaise was surely sulking. Was this how it had started for him? A handsome man on a horse bearing food and flowers and flattery? Laurent liked to think he had a better sense of self-preservation than twelve year old Nicaise, but…there was no malice in Damen’s face. And Laurent had eaten little that morning. And to think Damen had gone to all that trouble to bring him such gifts, without even knowing if he’d see Laurent again…

Laurent sat down a healthy distance away from him and took the apple gingerly. “Oranges,” he said. “I prefer oranges.”

Damen beamed as if Laurent had just given him a bouquet of his own instead of a cool reply. “I think that can be arranged,” he said, unwrapping the grapes and popping a few into his mouth. Laurent ate his apple in small, shallow bites, studying the rosy skin of the fruit instead of Damen’s equally rosy lips. “So,” he continued, taking it upon himself to tear the bread in two and uncork the oil, “what do you usually do here, when you aren’t picnicking with strangers?”

Laurent took his half of the bread and tore off a corner, dipping it lightly into the oil. “Think,” he answered shortly.

Damen tilted his head. “About?”

“The best ways to fend off strangers with picnics up their sleeves.”

“I see,” Damen chuckled. “Well, you aren’t doing a very good job of that. And I haven’t got sleeves.”

Laurent huffed, tearing the next piece of bread off rather viciously. “What do _you_ do, then, when you aren’t harassing helpless goose boys?”

Damen held up his hands in mock surrender. “Harassing? I’ll have you know I left my sword at home. _You’re_ the one with a flock of murderous geese at the ready.”

“Mm, true,” Laurent conceded, licking olive oil idly off his fingers. “And don’t you forget it.”

When he looked up Damen was smiling at him. Laurent flushed. Damen smiled wider. “But to answer your question, I spend a fair amount of time at court. Very dull official business. But when the Prince isn’t forced to attend meetings and have tea with Veretian suitors, I often accompany him on excursions all over Akielos. Why, just last year we dismantled an entire pirate operation off the eastern coast.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow, sitting back and plucking some grapes from the stem, intrigued despite himself. Damen continued, spinning stories of adventure that stretched the imagination but were entertaining to listen to nonetheless. He spoke of cunning pirates, powerful sea monsters, cruel bandits, rogue kyroi, and ferocious bears. He spoke of the sort of adventure Laurent had only ever found in books, and admittedly he was a little jealous that a mere guard had experienced so much of the world compared to him. Maybe that jealousy was what drove him to say it.

“What about the invasion of Delpha?”

Damen paused, setting down his bread and frowning. “I was there,” he said. He did not seem as eager to speak of it as his other exploits. “At the Prince’s side, as was my duty.”

Laurent cracked a walnut and was gratified to see Damen’s slight flinch. “I heard our forces were unstoppable,” he pressed. “Vere didn’t stand a chance.”

Damen shook his head. “It was not a fair fight,” he agreed.

“No fight’s ever fair,” Laurent retorted. “Someone’s always stronger.”

Damen blinked and looked away. “Perhaps. If it were up to me, we would never have invaded at all.”

Laurent was puzzled by this. The brave, strong Akielon wasn’t leaping at the opportunity for war? “And why not?”

“Many lives were lost,” he said. “Innocent lives. Orders were given to burn certain villages to weaken Veretian morale.” Damen sighed. “It was…my first real look at battle. At war. It was not a pleasant sight.”

“Your first…” Laurent scrutinized him. “How old are you?”

Damen latched onto the change of subject gratefully. “Nineteen as of this year. Youngest of the Prince’s Guard.”

“ _Nineteen_?” Laurent swore mentally. “But – you look –”

“Older?” Damen finished. “So I’ve been told. But – what, you thought I was some lecherous old man?”

It was a joke, but Laurent’s breath caught. He had, in fact, thought that. From afar Damen looked to be in his mid-twenties at least, though…up close, Laurent could recognize the brightness in his eyes, his youthful, glowing skin, his unlined face. It made his stomach flip. “I…” He hesitated. “Nobles have been known to be lecherous, around here.”

Damen’s brow lowered. “I see,” he said, expression unreadable. His mouth twisted. “Perhaps I should bring my sword next time, just in case I come across any.”

Laurent did not know what the warmth in his chest was, but he liked it. “An excellent idea.” He tossed Damen the cracked walnut, and he caught it with ease. A peace offering, of a sort. “I’m seventeen,” Laurent added. Damen opened his mouth. “And don’t say I look younger or smaller, because I’ve already been told that.”

Damen chuckled. “I wasn’t going to say that. You don’t look younger. Or smaller.”

“Really,” Laurent drawled. “Because compared to you I am positively miniscule.”

“Compared to me most people are miniscule,” Damen laughed. It was genuine, without a single trace of mockery, and that warmth in Laurent’s chest grew. He tipped his head up to the sky. “It’s so lonely up here.”

Laurent snorted. “Oh, how difficult it must be to tower over everyone you meet.” He flicked an almond at Damen’s knee. “I weep for you.”

Damen laughed again, louder and just as genuine, and Laurent couldn’t help but smile back, catching Damen’s gaze. His eyes were warm brown, with a golden sheen like melted honey, and for a moment Laurent could not look away. Damen’s eyes were…kind. Earnest. Laurent could not remember the last time someone had looked at him like that. It made him feel like more than a goose boy, and for a second he could almost imagine he wore a crown again.

Then the moment was broken by angry honking and a rush of wings, and they both started and saw Gus running towards Laurent at top speed, honking all the way as if planning to bite him.

Laurent sighed and honked right back at him to stop his advance. He shuffled to a reluctant stop and waddled away.

Damen was staring at him. “What?” Laurent snapped.

“I’ve never seen someone speak to geese before,” Damen said mildly.

Laurent shrugged, aiming for casual. “You pick up some things when your job is to herd them every day. Besides, I know that one better than the others. He was injured and I took care of him.”

“He doesn’t seem very grateful,” Damen said, watching Gus peck aggressively at the clover.

“Gus is just upset because I left him in the goose pen the last two nights. He’s grown far too used to sleeping on my pillow.” Laurent wished he had water. He hadn’t talked to someone this long for a while, and his throat went dry whenever Damen looked at him, which was far too often. In fact, Damen was currently looking at him, amusement clear on his face. Laurent flicked another almond at him.

“You named it Gus,” Damen said. “That is adora –”

Laurent’s next almond hit him straight in the mouth. Damen choked a little and then they were both laughing, and Damen was getting to his feet. Laurent looked up at him curiously. “It seems to me that Gus owes you an apology,” Damen explained.

“What are you –”

Then Damen was running after Gus, who squawked in alarm as he realized he was being pursued, fleeing across the field and flying in short spurts with his clipped wings, going as fast as his flat feet could propel him. Laurent watched in utter disbelief as Damen slipped his way across the wet grass in hot pursuit, lunging for Gus and finally catching him around his plump middle, mud streaking his legs as he stood unsteadily and walked back to the beech with a squirming Gus in hand.

Laurent gawked at him. Damen grinned shamelessly and lifted Gus up. “Alright, you silly goose. Time to apologize to the boy who was kind enough to offer you his pillow.”

“Careful, Damen, he might –” Laurent said just as Gus twisted around and bit Damen hard on the arm. Damen exclaimed and dropped him in surprise, and Gus wasted no time in fleeing the scene, dashing back to the goose pond and swimming out to the middle of it with his mate.

“You weren’t kidding,” Damen said ruefully. There was blood beading up where Gus had bitten him. Laurent, who had plenty of experience with goose bites, tossed him the cloth the grapes had been wrapped in.

“I did warn you.”

“I’ve been known to ignore warnings,” Damen said dryly, dabbing at the small wound. “But I appreciate your concern for my safety, Lykos.”

Laurent shrugged noncommittally. When Damen sat down again, it was closer to him than before. Or maybe it was just Laurent’s imagination, and the space between them seemed to lessen with every easy smile and teasing remark Damen directed at him. Trying to distract himself, Laurent looked at the sky and was startled to see the sun was low in the west, not far above the horizon at all. Had…had they just spent the entire afternoon together?

“It’s late,” Laurent said without meaning to.

Damen appeared equally surprised. “So it is!” He nodded to the spread of food, reduced to crumbs. “Looks like I don’t have any leftovers.”

Laurent threw the last almond at him. Damen caught it mid-air and ate it, smirking. Laurent stood, brushing himself off discreetly. “Best hurry on back to the Exalted before he goes hunting for pirates without you,” Laurent told him.

“He’ll wait for me,” Damen replied, but he gathered up the leather knapsack and repacked everything in the saddlebag after calling a reluctant Orion over. The horse had been grazing contentedly the entire time, and seemed as reluctant to leave as Damen. Laurent thought of Falada when he looked into the stallion’s dark eyes, though they held a spark that Falada’s had lost.

Laurent lifted his hand to the horse’s muzzle, letting Orion sniff at his palm and nuzzle it eagerly, perhaps smelling traces of apple. Orion was a very large stallion, strong and well-bred, pelt jet black and corded with muscle, and Laurent could not help but think that he was a fine horse, too fine for a guard. But maybe different standards were given to Prince’s guards.

“Lykos.”

Damen had swung himself into the saddle, and was peering down at Laurent from between Orion’s pricked ears. Laurent stepped back, folding his arms. “Yes?”

“If I can, I will return tomorrow,” Damen promised. “With oranges.”

Laurent inclined his head. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And then Damen was riding off, and though Laurent had criticized his skill the first time they’d met, he urged Orion into a flawless canter, wind incarnate as the stallion carried him away; away from Laurent and his beech tree, back to the palace that Laurent should have called home.

That night, Laurent told the workers a story about a man on a black horse who could make flowers bloom with his laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man sorry for the lateness of this chapter. I got super sick after my peru trip and didn't feel up to writing until this week. 
> 
> anyway, hope you enjoyed damen and laurent going on their first date~


	8. Turtledoves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, sorry for the wait on this chapter. my life has gotten really busy lately! I'm a senior in high school and there's a ton of work and not much time left for writing, but I'll still try my best to get these chapters out in a timely manner. thank you for your patience and support, enjoy!

True to his word, Damen returned the next day with oranges. And the day after that, and the day after that, until the days began to blur together. Each time, Laurent challenged him to bring a new food, many of which were near-impossible to find, but somehow Damen always managed. When Laurent requested Patran chocolate, Damen brought an entire tin. When he demanded a whole fish fresh from the Ellosean Sea, Damen delivered. And when Laurent slyly suggested a bottle of wine from the royal cellars, Damen arrived with not only the bottle (the finest vintage) but two glasses to drink it in. 

(Laurent hardly drank any, but found it amusing to watch Damen’s slow descent into tipsiness.)

Laurent was truly surprised by how genuinely well he got along with Damen – he had doubted a palace guard and a Prince-turned-goose boy would have much in common, but Damen listened curiously to Laurent’s goose-keeping tales and laughed when Laurent told him about the impish Nicaise, sappy Erasmus and Kallias, charismatic Vannes, and stoic Talik. He even mentioned his nightly storytelling, which piqued Damen’s interest greatly.

“Stories?” he asked, eyes wide, setting down his bread. “What sort of stories?”

Laurent hastily backtracked. “I – just, stories my mother told me, myths, legends, some I make up on the spot…” He bit his lip, hesitating. “Do you know the myth of Narcissus and Echo?”

To his surprise, Damen nodded eagerly. “I do. It was one of my favorites, as a young boy. Have you heard the myth of Eros and Psyche?” 

Laurent shook his head, slightly chagrined that a palace guard was more well-versed in mythology than he was, though in Laurent’s defense it was Akielon mythology, not Veretian. 

But Damen simply smiled and said, “Then I will bring it for you tomorrow.”

And, as true to his word as he always was, the next day he rode to Laurent’s tree with a book of Akielon myths and legends just for Laurent. When Damen handed him the book, Laurent’s throat constricted slightly. He did not know what expression he was making, but Damen said in a worried voice, “Was it thoughtless to assume you can read?”

Laurent laughed, a bit choked. “No,” he said. “I most definitely can read. I…I love to read, actually.”

Damen beamed. “Then you shall have all the books you desire!” He said it so openly, so sincerely, and Laurent’s throat tightened further. Was this flirtation or simply kindness? Or…or both? He did not know.

But the next day, when Damen returned with five more books, Laurent did know for certain that he was in trouble. Damen had no right to be both unfairly attractive and terribly _good_ , and it was doing strange things to Laurent. It wasn’t as if he’d never been attracted to someone before – he could appreciate aesthetically pleasing people like anyone else. 

But it was a passing attraction, a shallow sort of charm – his attraction towards Damen was something else. It had hardly been a week since he’d brought the flowers and already Laurent found it difficult to look at him without feeling slightly dizzy, focus lost as his gaze strayed to the way Damen’s lashes batted against his cheek, the strong curve of his jaw, the enticingly soft curls of his hair, the shift and stretch of his ridiculous muscles under shining brown skin. 

And then there were his lips. His lips were the worst. Damen had the sort of mouth that could inspire poems and paintings, full lips flushed a dark rose with a defined cupid’s bow and a playful tilt that was only enhanced by his dimples when he smiled, which he did all too often. Though his lips were slightly chapped, Laurent imagined they would be soft against his own, against his skin, against his –

Laurent hated Damen’s mouth. It was too distracting for its own good. _Damen_ was too distracting for his own good, and Laurent could not afford to be distracted, not when his uncle was still searching for him. And yet…Laurent liked being with him. Perhaps it was foolish but he felt safer when Damen was there, and had more than once imagined his uncle’s men finding him only for Damen to fight them off fearlessly. Yet at the same time Laurent knew that brute strength could be used against _him_ in an instant. Laurent was by no means weak, but if Damen decided to, he’d be able to overpower Laurent with ease. Eliska’s chokeholds would do little to stop him.

The thought was worrying, but maybe not as worrying as it should have been. 

Which was even more worrying.

Besides talking about geese and myths, Damen spoke often about the goings on in the palace, and Laurent tried not to look _too_ interested.

“Have you spent much time with the Veretian prince?” Laurent asked him once. 

Damen looked briefly surprised, then nodded. “A fair amount, I suppose.” His lips quirked and his voice took on a haughty, vaguely mocking tone. “Prince Laurent Émile Adrien Rabat.”

Laurent shivered. It was disconcerting to hear Damen say his name – his _real_ name – when in fact he was speaking of Aimeric. But Laurent had to know as much as possible, so he forced himself to hide his discomfort and pressed further.

“And? What do you think of him?”

“His name is far too long,” Damen said dismissively, flicking blades of grass at the geese, who had grown used to his presence and often grazed around them. Laurent snorted. Damen shot him a grin. “I know that’s the ‘Veretian way,’ but it seems overly complicated. Damianos-Exalted agrees, if the way he paced the floor trying to memorize the name is any indication. He seemed very frustrated.” Damen chuckled, then sobered, frowning a little. “Prince Laurent is handsome and witty and courtly, and everything a Prince Consort should be. But...well, I’m sure you’ve heard of Lady Jokaste’s scandal.”

Laurent shook his head. “What? What scandal?”

Damen grimaced. “I suppose it’s not been made very public yet. Well…you’ll find out eventually, so I suppose…Lady Jokaste is pregnant, but by Prince Kastor, not Crown Prince Damianos.”

“Oh,” Laurent said, wrinkling his nose. “Oh, dear. That is…unfortunate.”

Damen shrugged, looking away. “Yes, very, but the Veretians are glad to have her out of the picture. They are not fond of bastardry, and probably think it fitting that a bastard will be sired by another bastard.” He had a strange, distant look in his eyes, and there was a tightness to his shoulders. “They seem unaware that Damianos-Exalted is grieving the loss of Lady Jokaste and are intent on continuing to push the wedding date closer and closer.” Damen’s brow lowered and his jaw clenched.  
Laurent eyed him. Damen clearly did not to want to talk about this. “I…I didn’t mean to upset you…” Laurent said nervously. 

Damen blinked, and glanced at him, eyes widening. “What? Oh, no, Lykos, you didn’t…” He sighed, and forced a smile. “I’m not upset. It’s just that the palace is…not a very enjoyable place to be these days. Damianos-Exalted’s gloom is rubbing off on me, I’m afraid.”

“Then let us speak of happier things,” Laurent suggested, and Damen smiled at him gratefully and Laurent tried to ignore the way his stomach fluttered.

One day, Damen returned with not only lunch in his saddlebag but an extra horse, a palomino gelding two hands shorter than Orion. Laurent stared at Damen in disbelief as he reined the horses in alongside the beech tree. 

“He’s not as tame as Orion, but I think you can handle him,” Damen said, holding out the gelding’s reins to Laurent. “Go on. His name is Apollo.”

Hardly believing his eyes, Laurent stepped forward, taking Apollo’s reins and letting the horse nose at his hand. “He’s beautiful,” Laurent murmured, stroking his hand up Apollo’s neck and making a soft sound which the horse answered with an amiable snort. Apollo was a bit jumpy under his hands as he moved to the horse’s left side, but compared to Falada he was perfectly tame. Laurent pushed thoughts of Falada from his head and swung himself into the saddle, feeling the horse sigh under him as he took the reins. 

When Laurent looked over at Damen, the guard was looking at him with a strange, soft expression. Laurent raised an eyebrow and Damen raised one right back, unapologetic. “You’re far gentler with horses than with people,” Damen said.

Laurent flushed and blamed it on the sun. “Are you implying that I’m not gentle with you?”

Damen laughed. “I suppose you are as gentle as a little wolf can be expected to be,” was all he said before nudging Orion into a canter across the pasture. Laurent did not quite know what to make of that, and rode Apollo after him, the two horses circling each other and meandering along the river for a time, until Laurent could see the bright speck of Nicaise’s blue cap and subtly redirected Damen across the river and into the woods, where he often saw nobles riding on afternoons such as this.

But today they were along amidst the whispering trees, the leaves’ shadows painting their skin in patchwork patterns, the low burble of the river a constant sound under the occasional chirp of birds and rustle of the brush. Then a cold wind rushed through the trees and curled past Laurent’s cheek, chilling him to the bone, and suddenly he was in another forest, running, terrified, watching Orlant’s chest part with a sword blade, feeling Govart’s hand on his ankle, hearing his uncle order his nephew’s death –

Apollo shuddered under him and balked, sensing his agitation. Damen halted Orion alongside him, and reached out, the space between them just enough for his fingertips to brush Laurent’s face, warm where the wind had been cold. It was a brief touch, but it jolted Laurent back into the present, and he swallowed hard, not wanting to meet Damen’s gaze yet finding he could not look away.

“What’s wrong?” Damen asked.

Laurent drew in a deep breath. Calm. Calm. “Nothing,” he said, and knew Damen did not believe him. He exhaled, steadier, and reminded himself that this was not that forest of death, and in fact the closeness of the trees made him feel as safe as Damen did, and just being on horseback again gave a confidence to Laurent’s entire body, muscle memory reawakened. Calm; he was calm. “Nothing at all,” Laurent insisted, firmer. 

Damen held his gaze for a few more seconds before relenting, and they continued to walk their horses through the trees together until Laurent began to worry that the geese had been left unattended for too long, and they rode back to the river. Once they reached the bank, Damen turned to him and said, “I’ll race you, goose boy.”

Laurent’s only warning was a small smile before he dug his heels into Apollo’s sides and sent the horse hurtling into a gallop, splashing through the river and soaking his shoes and the hem of his chiton. Behind him he heard Damen’s indignant cry, yet the stallion soon caught up, hooves pounding thunderously as the two horses strained against each other, neck and neck, their riders leaning low over the reins, shooting each other looks of pure determination before urging their mounts faster, faster.

Laurent could not hear Apollo’s voice as he had heard Falada’s, but he could still encourage him with low, nickering sounds and bounces of his heels, and Apollo responded readily, pulling ahead of Orion despite the stallion’s unfair advantage of size and stamina. Laurent cooed to him and Apollo tossed his head proudly, reluctantly thudding to a stop at the beech tree several paces before Orion.

Laurent brushed a hand over his brow, making certain the headscarf had not been disturbed. But he had tied it very tight, and though his hair was damp with sweat it was contained. Once he had made sure of that he turned to Damen, who was panting and chuckling breathlessly, shaking his head. 

“Remind me never to challenge you to a race, Lykos,” he said. 

Laurent leaned back in the saddle innocently. “I thought it was fun.”

Damen laughed again, eyes crinkling up at the corners. “Good,” he said. “I’m glad.”

Laurent looked at him, and Damen looked back, and it seemed that the moment stretched a bit too long between them, passing the line of friendly companionship and crossing into unknown territory. Laurent was the first to look away, hands tight on the reins. His heart would not stop pounding no matter how much he willed it to.

That night he told the other workers the story of Eros and Psyche. They listened with wide eyes to the lovers’ tale, and though many of them knew it already, even Nicaise was captivated by the tale. 

The early winter sky was dark as Laurent walked to his door, pausing at the pale flash of his reflection in a passing window. He stopped, blinking at his face and lifting a hand to his jaw. It seemed sharper than before, less rounded, stronger. He looked…older. When he moved his arm, lean muscles shifted under the lightly tanned skin, and the freckles were more prevalent than before, spotting over his arms and chest, everywhere the sun had touched him. He…he did not look like a boy anymore. He looked like a man. 

Was that what Damen saw when he looked at him? 

“Work here long enough, and you can convince Adrastus to get you a table mirror.”

Laurent turned, startled, and Vannes smiled from where she stood at her own door, hand on the knob. He flushed. “I – I didn’t know you were there.” Feeling foolish, he hastily went to his own door, pulling it tightly closed behind himself, lighting a candle and sitting down heavily on the bed beside Gus, who made a sleepy squawking sound. Laurent sighed and unwound the headscarf, feeling the weight of his hair spill across his neck, reminding him that he was not who he said he was. 

Then there was a small movement from his window, and Laurent’s head jerked up, eyes panicked as they met Vannes’s gaze from her own window. He had forgotten to close his curtains. 

Laurent rose and she blinked at him, mouth open. He hesitated, then gestured for her to come over with shaking hands. Vannes’s eyes widened, but she left her window and then, miraculously, she was at his door, and he pulled the curtains shut and opened the door for her. 

He sat down on the bed. She sat down beside him, saying nothing, staring at his hair with a kind of horrified fascination.

“You’re Veretian,” she said, finally. “You must be…not even Lady Jokaste’s hair is as yellow as yours.”

“Yes,” Laurent said, quiet. He cleared his throat and said, in his natural Veretian accent, “I am.”

Vannes swallowed hard. “But there’s more to it than that, isn’t there. You aren’t _just_ Veretian.”

Laurent shot her a wary, sideways glance. 

“You hide your hair constantly,” she continued, folding her arms. “You got a job working as a lowly Akielon goose boy. You faked a Forest accent. You’re always skittish as a deer. You _dye your eyebrows_.”

Laurent looked at her and wondered if he would regret trusting her. Vannes was…she was a friend, but she was a friend of Lykos, not Laurent. But…but maybe she could be. 

He took a deep breath, in and out, and told himself that not everyone was as deceitful as his uncle or Aimeric. And if they were, well…it was best to find out sooner rather than later.

And so the story – his story – spilled from his lips, disjointed, told backwards, from King Theomedes giving him the job, because he had come with Vaskians from the Forest, where he had been lost and injured. He was lost because his company had mutinied, he told her, and there was a massacre, ordered by his own uncle, and his horse had witnessed it and gone mad. The usurper was his childhood friend, Lord Aimeric, but the real mastermind was his uncle, the Veretian Ambassador, who had planned all along to rob his nephew of his name, his title, and his life.

“Lykos was the name given to me by the Vaskian clan leader,” Laurent whispered to her in the dimness. “My real name is Prince Laurent of Vere.”

It was very dark, so it was difficult to see Vannes’s expression, but he heard her sharp intake of breath, and felt her shift away from him hastily. 

“Prince?” she repeated, high and startled and slightly strangled. 

“Yes.”

“Do you want,” Vannes said, halting, still whispering, “should…should I bow to you? Exalted – or, Your Highness, I mean –”

“What? No!” Laurent exclaimed, dismayed. “No. Please don’t…don’t bow, Vannes. You don’t need to do that.” He bit his lip. “And just…just Laurent is perfectly fine.”

Vannes looked at him for a long moment, and then reached out, careful, and put a hand on his shoulder. She watched him as if half-expecting him to order her to kneel at his feet at any second, but of course he did no such thing, and stayed very still under her touch. Her face was close enough to decipher, now, and he could see her furrowed brow and wide eyes and parted lips. Nowhere did he see the hard lines of disbelief or betrayal. He relaxed, infinitesimally. 

“You’re the Veretian Prince,” she said, firmly, as if she was trying to convince him of this instead of the other way around. “You are our Crown Prince’s betrothed, Laurent of Vere.”

“You…you believe me?”

“Believe you?” Vannes shook her head fondly. “Gods. Of course I believe you. Not even you could spin such a wild tale out of thin air.”

“Sometimes, I almost wish it was just a tale,” Laurent admitted. “That would be simpler.”

But her gaze hardened. “No,” she said. “ _You_ should be our Prince Consort. Not that little snake, Aimeric. And as for your uncle…” Her lip twisted. “The thought of someone like him having any influence over Damianos-Exalted is revolting. Whatever his motives are, I bet they spell trouble for Akielos.”

“And Vere,” Laurent added grimly. “My father will send messengers and brothers eventually to check up on me. And Aimeric and I don’t look _that_ similar.” He frowned. “My uncle will find a way to erase the evidence of his treachery, and it will not be pretty.”

Vannes blanched in understanding. “War,” she said. 

“Maybe.” Laurent hoped he was wrong. Once, he had cared little for Akielos. It was a distant land with strange people and an unfamiliar culture. But now…he had made a home here, of a sort, and he had made friends here, more than he’d ever had in Vere. He did not find any joy in the idea of war between the two kingdoms, but he was certain his uncle did. 

“We can’t let him,” Vannes told him fiercely. “We’ve got to get you your name back.”

Laurent sighed. “Yes…but I don’t know how. It would be suicide to go to Theomedes alone and demand he take my word over my uncle’s and Aimeric’s and all his guards’. So I thought that perhaps if I was surrounded by people who believe me, I might have a better chance of convincing Theomedes and Damianos of the truth.”

“Yes,” Vannes agreed, nodding, “we could get all the workers together and be your guard to make the King listen. They can’t kill all of us, right?”

Laurent pressed his lips together in a thin line. “That’s what I thought at first, and then I remembered Orlant, and Jord, and Lazar, and Paschal, and all the others who were on my side. There were a lot of them, too, and my uncle killed them all.”

“Ah,” Vannes said. She looked down, hand slipping from his shoulder.

Laurent reached out to her this time, touching her knee lightly, and she glanced up. “The more time that I spend here with the workers, the more I know that I cannot risk your lives.” 

Her face softened, and she offered a small smile. “Not even Nicaise’s?” she joked.

Laurent smiled back, smaller and sadder. “Not even his. I will not drag any of you into this mess with me. If we were to fail…well. My uncle is already quite upset with me for evading him the first time. I don’t want to think about what he would do to punish my friends. No. This…this is something I must bear alone, for now, until there is a better solution in sight.”

Vannes took his hand. He started, and she squeezed, comforting. “You are not alone, Laurent,” she said. “You don’t need to be alone anymore.”

Laurent blinked at her, a lump in his throat. “Thank you,” he whispered. “For…for listening, and believing me, and wanting to help.”

“That’s what friends are for,” she told him. She squeezed his hand one last time and then stood, casting a rueful glance towards the candle, which was melted down quite a bit, sputtering slightly. “It’s late, and there’s work to be done tomorrow…as usual.” She went to the door, and paused on the threshold. “Listen…we’ll figure this out. Somehow.”

Laurent bit his lip. “I hope so.” He hesitated. “Vannes…you know, those guards would kill me if they knew I was here.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” she swore, putting a finger to her lips. “Your secret is safe with me, goose boy.”

Gus stirred on the bed and honked sleepily, irritated that they were still talking. They both chuckled, the mood lightning somewhat. “Goodnight, Vannes,” Laurent said.

“Goodnight, Laurent,” she replied, flashing a grin over her shoulder, one that promised both camaraderie and revenge, and then she was leaving and the door swung shut behind her, and the wind whistled through the room in its wake, ruffling white feathers and stirring strands of golden hair. 

*

The next day Laurent felt light as a feather, spirits higher than they had been in a while, and when Damen rode to his beech tree he greeted him with a rare smile. Damen smiled back, a little bemused. 

“Should I be worried?” he teased, tossing Laurent an orange. “Did you finally get the chance to sic your geese on someone?” 

“Pff, no,” Laurent said, peeling the orange and flicking some of the peel at him. “Am I not allowed to simply be in a good mood?”

Damen raised an eyebrow. “What, I wonder, has you in such a good mood today?”

Laurent shrugged. “I have very good friends,” was all he said.

Damen smiled. “Oh? You mean Vannes, and Talik, and the other workers?”

“Yes,” Laurent said, settling in the grass and leaning against the tree. “And you.”

Damen sat down next to him, still smiling slightly. “Friends?” he asked. “Is that what we are?”

Laurent paused, orange half-peeled. His heart thudded, off-beat. “Well,” he drawled, “yes, unless you had another word in mind. It is a rather one-sided friendship, what with you always bringing me food and horses and books, so…on second thought, perhaps you are more of a slave than a friend.”

Damen made a sound of mock-outrage. “A slave!” he exclaimed. “Why, you little –” He lunged playfully for him.

Laurent cackled and dodged his arm the first time, but then Damen caught his shoulder and suddenly their sides were pressed together and Damen’s arm was heavy on his waist and Laurent couldn’t breathe. Something between them shifted, perceptibly, and Laurent saw the way Damen’s pupils dilated, heard the hitch of his breath, felt the flicker of Damen’s fingers on his hip.

And then Damen leaned in, eyes half-lidded, his shadow falling over Laurent and his arm around Laurent’s waist pulling him closer. His intent was obvious, and Laurent’s gut twisted in raw fear. He had managed to persuade himself that Damen wanted nothing from him but friendship and company; forced himself to be blind to Damen’s affections because he was afraid of what Damen would do when Laurent rejected them. 

Laurent did not say a word, just flinched away from the impending kiss, turning his head and squeezing his eyes shut, bracing himself for the kiss to come anyway, for rough, strong hands to hold him in place and take what they wanted, what they felt they were entitled to. But instead Damen’s heat left his side, his arm around Laurent withdrawing hastily, and he said in a small, worried voice, “Are you alright?”

Laurent opened his eyes, looking cautiously at Damen. He had moved away, leaving a foot of space between them, his eyes wide and lips parted in an expression of dismay. He didn’t _look_ angry, but disappointment could quickly turn into rage. “I’m sorry,” Laurent whispered, apologizing on instinct, heart pounding.

Damen shook his head, raising a hand. Laurent flinched again. “No, no, don’t – I would never hurt you,” he said earnestly, biting his lip. “Never. And if you don’t want me to touch you, I promise I won’t.”

Laurent swallowed hard. “I…like it when you touch me,” he managed to say, face flushing. “Like…like we were, sitting together, with your arm around me. I like that.”

Damen’s worry faded a little, and he smiled gently, nodding and moving back to Laurent’s side. His arm draped around Laurent’s shoulders and Laurent slowly eased into it, letting himself curl into Damen’s side. “Nothing you don’t want,” Damen assured. Something like relief washed over him, as warm as Damen’s skin against his.

But Laurent didn’t know how to explain to him that it wasn’t that he didn’t want Damen to kiss him; it was just that he had never been kissed, he hadn’t done _things_ like Damen surely had, and a part of him was afraid that Damen would hold his inexperience against him. Or worse, Damen would discard him afterwards, once he’d had his fun with the fumbling goose boy. 

So Laurent just leaned his head against Damen’s shoulder and said, “I want this,” and Damen smiled and held him until the sun went down.

*

Something changed between them that day, and Laurent did not know what it was that they had now, what it was that they were; but it felt like more than friendship. Still, Damen never tried to do anything other than hold him, and even then it was with careful, light touches; embraces that would be easy to escape from. But Laurent never did.

Damen had the opportunity to take advantage of him and he had not. Laurent was beginning to realize that perhaps he never would, and perhaps he could be trusted, too. And Damen still brought him food, and sometimes Apollo too, and as the days grew colder he brought a large blanket to wrap around their shoulders. They would sit together under the beech tree, cocooned in soft warmth, and tell each other about their respective lives in familiar, comfortable repartee. 

A few times, Laurent considered telling Damen the truth. But…he had no doubt that this, whatever this was, would cease to be if he did. A guard and a prince could never be together. And besides…Damen might not even believe him. He might laugh in his face, and that would be even worse. So Laurent stayed Lykos, the goose boy, and tried to be content with that.

One day they started talking about horses, and Laurent worked up the courage to ask, “What about the Veretian Prince’s horse? I heard he arrived on a very fine mount.”

Damen’s expression grew troubled. “The white stallion, yes. He went mad, so they say. I believe he is to be killed.”

Laurent’s heart stuttered. “What?”

Damen sighed. “Yes, I’m afraid so. It’s a pity. But his uncle was insistent that he is a dangerous creature.”

“But – kill him?” Laurent whispered. “They can’t kill him.”

Damen frowned. “He is a prince; he can do whatever he likes. And it is his horse. I’m sorry, Lykos. I know you’re fond of horses.”

“No, you don’t –” Laurent swallowed. “They _can’t_ ,” he repeated, quiet and trembling.

Damen made a soft sound, looking at him and leaning a bit closer. “Lykos, what’s wrong?”

Laurent looked back at him. “Damen, can you save the horse?”

He blinked, surprised. “Lykos, I…the King’s already issued the order. It might be done already.”

“Please,” Laurent begged. “Please, can you just tell Damianos-Exalted that the horse doesn’t deserve to die? It’s…it’s very important to me.”

Damen still looked confused, but he nodded and stood, leaving Laurent with the blanket. “I’ll try,” he promised. “I’ll go right now and try if you want me to.”

“Yes,” Laurent said. “I…I don’t want to make any demands of you, but. I would not ask this if it wasn’t –”

“Hush,” Damen said, shaking his head. “It’s alright. I can see this means a lot to you…I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” Laurent whispered, standing with him, holding the blanket close. He hesitated, and then rose up on his tiptoes and quickly kissed Damen’s cheek, just a quick brush of lips, enough to feel a slight rasp of stubble and the heat of Damen’s skin. When he pulled back he ducked his head down, flushed, not from embarrassment but because he wanted to do it again.

Damen smiled softly and clasped Laurent’s shoulder, reassuring. “I’ll do my best,” he repeated, and Laurent nodded, and prayed that Damen’s best would be enough as he swung himself into Orion’s saddle and rode off to the palace at a gallop. 

*

Damen did not return later that day, and Laurent’s gut twisted with the implications of that. If the King had already given the order…what could a palace guard possibly do? So it was that he found himself slipping out that night, through the palace gates and courtyards, until he reached the entrance to the stables. The night guards stopped him there, of course, eyebrows raised and javelins crossed.

“I’ve been called to the stables,” Laurent said demurely, batting his lashes at them.

They looked him over, then, unsurprisingly, motioned for him to pass. All they saw was a Forest boy, slender and pretty and unassuming, not important enough to be involved in any sort of plot. It might be more difficult to sneak a white stallion past them, but…Laurent would cross that bridge when he came to it. 

There were a few other stable hands and grooms about, and he nodded at them and they nodded back as he passed, quickening his step and casting his gaze to the stable at the far end where he had found Falada last. It was a long walk, but he had to make it. For Falada. 

But when he reached it, he knew at once that something was wrong – the barn smelled of stale hay and dust. Gone was the warm smell of animals, and as he dashed down the rows of stalls, he saw that each and every one was empty, as hollow as his chest felt when he got to the end and knew that Falada was not here. Not anymore.

Perhaps another stable. He would have to check every one, Laurent decided resolutely. He would not abandon Falada. He crossed the arena and ducked back under the fence rails.

But when he straightened up he felt resistance; his headscarf had caught on something in the rails – a nail, or a tether hook, he didn’t know, but he did know that as he struggled to find it and free himself, he was attracting unwanted attention. His fingers were numb from the cold night and it was taking too long. He fumbled with cloth and wood and metal and it all felt the same.

A stable boy approached. “Hey! What are you doing?”

“I’m caught,” Laurent hissed, tugging, hearing fabric rip, heart pounding. 

“You shouldn’t be here!” the boy retorted, loudly. Too loudly. People were starting to notice, and then – Laurent saw him. Standing across the field, a hulking man with a crooked nose and lanky black hair, looking at him.

Panic seized Laurent, and with no thought in mind but escape, he ripped himself away from the rails, headscarf coming free in a billowing blue cloud, unraveling on the ground. His yellow hair shone like silver in the moonlight, streaming out behind him as he broke into a run. Laurent’s body was numb with cold and terror and he stumbled over his steps, hearing a shout behind him and knowing Govart was in pursuit. 

Laurent stumbled again and nearly fell. Govart was closing in, he knew it; and at any moment Laurent expected to feel his hands around his neck, lunging like a fox on a pheasant, jaw tight on its throat. 

Distantly, Laurent felt that he should do something other than run, that he should turn and face Govart somehow, but the wind rushed through his ears so loudly he could not think, white noise impossible to decipher, like the chattering of the geese had been so many weeks ago. 

The guards were blocking the exit. Laurent ran to them, panting. “That man,” he gasped, “he’s trying to hurt me. Please.”

Alarmed, the guards turned to apprehend Govart, and Laurent dashed past them and through the gates with his heart in his throat, distantly hearing Govart’s angry yells as he was stopped with the warning of javelins to the chest. Even then Laurent kept running, skidding over cobblestones, soaked in a cold sweat, conscious of his hair which had once been something he was proud of, and now had to keep hidden as if it were an ugly deformity. It felt strange to feel it against the back of his neck and shoulders; it made him feel bare, exposed, vulnerable.

He had reached the last courtyard before the fields, and slowed his steps, too tired to run any further, just wanting to return to his bed where no one could see the tears of frustration and fear which threatened to fall from his eyes.

He had nearly made it to the gate when a voice stopped him in his tracks. 

“What beautiful hair.”

Laurent froze, and turned, slowly, towards the voice’s owner. She stood several feet away, reclining casually against a pillar, rounded belly visible under her long white gown. His heart sank. “Lady Jokaste,” he said.

“Mm.” She tilted her head, her own yellow hair falling in elegant curls over her shoulder, pale eyes piercing as she studied him. Then they alit with recognition. “And you are the new goose boy. Lykos.” Her lips curled in amusement. “The one with the smudgy eyebrows.”

“Not anymore,” Laurent dared to say, because if she was going to turn him in, then he had nothing left to lose.

“Oh?” She seemed intrigued by this. “Let me guess…thornroot.” He nodded warily and she raised her own eyebrows. “Quite the master of disguise, aren’t you?” 

“I must return to my quarters,” Laurent said, edging towards the gate. 

“But you fascinate me so very much,” Jokaste countered. “You know…they’ve been searching for a boy with yellow hair, those Veretians. You wouldn’t happen to know about that, now would you?”

Laurent stared at her. She was…she was _toying_ with him. Like a cat playing with its prey. His eyes narrowed. “No,” he said. “I don’t know anything about the Veretians.”

Her smile grew. “Don’t you? The Veretian Prince, they say he has yellow hair. But yours, _Lykos_ , is golden.” She moved away from the pillar, going back into the shadows, into the palace. “Gold is so often stolen. I suggest you keep yours safe.” And with that she was gone.

Laurent stayed, frozen, for several seconds afterwards. She knew. Lady Jokaste knew. He had no doubt – the look in her eyes had not left any room for it. _Lykos_ , she had said mockingly, as if indulging a small child’s silly nickname. 

He walked back to the fields with a hollow chest. When he reached his door, he locked it tight behind him and lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if when he woke in the morning it would be in chains, with his uncle smiling down at him. 

*

Impossibly, Laurent awoke that morning in his own bed, unchained, in one piece, with his door’s bolt untouched. He must have slept through breakfast, because someone was knocking furiously on his door, and after fumbling to put on his spare headscarf he opened it and found Nicaise there, glaring and demanding to know what had kept him up so late. 

Laurent made up something about an evening stroll, and Nicaise snorted and told him to stroll his ass over to the goose pens.

He waited for Damen that day with a strange mixture of hope and dread. But Damen did not come. Instead, a letter did, delivered by the pageboy Ancel sometime around noon. He picked his way through the grass primly, wrinkling his nose at the goose droppings and looking at Laurent down his nose. Ancel thrust the letter out in front of him with a dramatic pause. 

Laurent raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

“A letter from someone in the palace,” Ancel announced. Laurent took it from him, examining it. It was sealed with a pool of plain red wax. “My chamber-lord sent me with it. Told me it was of utmost importance.”

Laurent hesitated, then broke the wax seal, throat tightening as he read the three sentences written in black ink on the parchment.

_L –_

_By the time I arrived at the palace yesterday, they had already taken away the horse you pleaded for. And now that I am here, the Exalted seems determined to keep me busy, so I will be unable to visit you today. I am truly sorry._

_– D_

Laurent exhaled shakily, and folded the letter, tucking it into his pocket. Ancel watched him curiously. “Have friends in the palace, do you?”

Laurent pinned him with a cool look and stood, pleased that he was taller than Ancel by at least three inches. The pageboy shrank back a little. “Do you know where they sent the prince’s horse? The dead one?”

Ancel gulped. “Y-yes. The knacker, two blocks east from the animal pens.”

Laurent smiled thinly. “Thank you, Ancel. That will be all.”

Ancel fled across the field. When he was gone, Laurent told the geese to stay put and headed for the knacker, trying to prepare himself and knowing that there was no way he possibly could. He found the place by smell, the air thick and cloying with animal carcasses and blood. As he walked, tufts of hair and feathers fluttered on the breeze around him, carpeting the dirt at his feet. The knacker was a man with a heavy apron and a heavier ax, sharpening said ax on a whetstone and not looking up when Laurent approached. The ax was bloodied, but subtly, a thin copper tinge on the edge of the blade that could never quite be washed off. 

“Sir,” Laurent asked, raising his voice over the scrape of the metal, “has the white horse, the royal one, been killed?”

The knacker paused, and raised his gaze slowly, brow furrowing. “Aye,” he said. “Yesterday.”

“I thought so.” Laurent did not quite know why he had come. He fought the urge to flee, away from this place of filth and carnage. 

“Was he a friend of yours?” the knacker asked, a joke, but Laurent was not laughing.

“Yes,” Laurent said. “A very good friend, actually.”

The knacker snorted. “What’re you, a sentimental stable-hand?”

“Goose boy,” Laurent replied, shortly. 

“Huh.” The knacker went back to his work. When Laurent did not leave, he heaved a great sigh and said, “’Spose you wanna see him?”

Bile rose in Laurent’s throat. “Is there anything left?”

“Heh. Pieces, sure. Fine pieces they are, too. Fine beast.” He gestured to his right, and for the first time Laurent saw the severed hind leg of a white horse, stained with mud and blood, being readied for dog meat. And beside it, the tip of another leg, the rest hidden by the storehouse wall. 

Laurent recoiled, yet was unable to look away from the fragment of Falada. And when he looked at the knacker’s outstretched hands, they were brown with unwashed blood, Falada’s blood, and none of it felt real.

“Sir,” Laurent said, and his voice sounded strange and distant even to his own ears, “what will happen to – is he really being left to the dogs?”

The knacker shrugged. “Matter of fact, you’re not the first to ask about a burial. Man with the Crown Prince’s lion pin came by late yesterday, demanding the beast “be given more respect in death than he was in life,” or some nonsense. But it’s the Prince’s orders, so I’ll follow ‘em.”

“So…so he will be buried,” Laurent breathed, filled with such overwhelming gratitude towards Damen that he could hardly stand. “He will be put to rest.”

The knacker grunted affirmatively. “Don’t you have geese to tend to, boy?”

Laurent did, and he did not want to stay there any longer anyway.

*

When he returned to the fields, the shadows were long and there was a lone figure at his beech tree. Laurent’s heart leapt, and as he drew closer he could see it was Damen, head tilted up towards the sky, long cloak fluttering around him like a pair of scarlet wings. Laurent ran to him, heedless of the stream or the stones in his way, chest choked with emotion and eyes stinging with unshed tears. 

Damen saw him as he dashed through the flock of startled geese, sending several squawking away, and turned towards him with wide, worried eyes. He caught Laurent in outstretched arms, and Laurent smothered his sob in Damen’s chest, and once he started crying he could not stop. Damen did not shush him, but simply held him close, and eased them down to the earth where they could curl together against the tree. 

The folds of Damen’s cloak fell around them and Laurent kept his face hidden, aware that he was getting Damen’s chiton wet with tears, and yet they just kept coming. Laurent had not cried since the last night in Arles, with Auguste, and that thought just made him cry harder, shaking with the sadness and the longing for places and people he could not have.

Eventually his loud sobs tapered off into quiet weeping, tears trickling down his cheeks one by one, his eyes feeling red and puffy. Damen held him even then, with Laurent’s legs folded across his lap and his arms and torso tucked against Damen’s side and chest. Laurent did not know how Damen was here when he said would not be, and Laurent did not care. Because Damen was here, for him, and that was all that mattered.

Damen had been quiet, but as Laurent quieted down, he started to speak. No…not speak. Sing. Laurent paused, sniffling, and listened. His voice was low but sweet, the sort of voice unused to singing but not inept at it. Laurent did not recognize the song, but it sounded like a lullaby, and as he heard the words his heart ached – for it was a tale about dancing horses and smiling moons and birds that flew among the stars and it sounded for all the world like the kind of song Laurent’s mother would have sung to him, so long ago.

Laurent lifted his head and looked at Damen, his face illuminated by the sinking sun in rich browns and golds, all gentle lines of youth and warmth, like his body where they touched. Damen seemed to feel Laurent’s eyes on him and faltered mid-sentence, the note trailing off into silence as their gazes met. Damen’s head tilted down, concerned.

Laurent did not think. He did not do anything except what he had been wanting to, longing to, for all this time. 

Kissing Damen was like nothing Laurent had ever felt before. It was soft, and quiet, and almost painfully intimate, and Laurent quickly realized he did not know what he was doing but it was alright, that was alright, he could almost imagine Damen saying that as a large, calloused hand cupped his cheek carefully; thumb rubbing small circles into his skin, wiping the tears away. Because Damen did know what he was doing, and seemed content to let Laurent learn, their lips moving slowly but with increasing surety. 

Eventually, Laurent remembered he had hands too, and lifted one to slide cautiously into Damen’s hair, and Damen smiled, and Laurent carded his fingers through his curls, encouraged. Damen’s arm fell around his waist, and Laurent welcomed it. They broke apart to breathe briefly now and then, but Laurent could not get enough of Damen’s lips on his own, amazed that something so simple could be so pleasant and calming and _good_.

But they did break away eventually, and Laurent knew he probably appeared dazed, because he was. And his eyes still felt red, and his face must have been splotchy from crying, but Damen looked at him as if he was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Laurent touched Damen’s hand on his face, holding it there, and leaned into his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Damen murmured after a beat.

Laurent shook his head. “You did your best.”

“For you, always,” Damen said, and Laurent flushed, taken off-guard. “I still wish I could have done more. You’re clearly…upset.”

“I saw his corpse,” Laurent replied plainly. “Well, his severed leg. But that was enough to…to make me realize he was really dead.”

“Oh, Lykos,” Damen sighed. “You went to the knacker’s yard?”

Laurent nodded. “I felt as if I had to. I don’t know.” He paused. “The knacker told me about what you did. Damen, I –”

“It was the decent thing to do,” Damen said firmly. “No prince’s horse should be fed to hounds.” He set his jaw. “Not even when the prince in question is cruel enough to send him to them.”

Laurent shivered. “You think the prince is cruel?”

Damen’s gaze slipped away, dark and distant. “A golden prince is easy to love if you don’t have to watch him picking wings off flies,” he said. “Unfortunately, I do.” 

Laurent touched his jaw, bringing Damen’s gaze back to him. “In your letter…you said you wouldn’t be able to visit today. What changed?”

“Nothing,” Damen admitted. “They were determined to keep me in the palace. I simply decided that I’d much rather be here, with you, and not even a king was going to stand in my way.”

Laurent’s lips parted. “You snuck out.”

“Well,” Damen said, mouth curving up, “when you put it like that…”

Laurent laughed, soft and delighted, and kissed him again, because he could, because he wanted to, drying tears forgotten on his cheeks in the face of Damen’s familiar touch.


	9. Fly the Coop

Three days later, Laurent and Nicaise herded the geese into the pasture as usual, hurrying together along the shaded cobblestones, eager to feel the warm sunshine of the pasture. But that day, Laurent stopped short of the gate, staring up at the curve of the wall above the arch, at the dark wooden board hanging there and, affixed to it, Falada’s disembodied head.

He stumbled and clutched at the stones of the wall with one hand. Nicaise glanced at him, then squinted up at the horse head. “You don’t like our new décor?”

Laurent shook his head, swallowing back his revulsion and straightening his back. “Why would they do that to him?” he asked, unable to look away from Falada’s clean white pelt, blood and the mark of the axe scrubbed away, mane combed to lie straight against his regal neck, nose pointed forward proudly, glass eyes gleaming black.

Nicaise shrugged, starting through the gate. “He was some rich man’s pet, I bet. Haven’t you ever seen the inside of those fancy estates, full of stuffed animals – dead pets and deer and bears, the like?” He wrinkled his nose. “But why they’d hang him up on the goose pasture gate...who knows. Who cares.” 

Nicaise left with the geese, and still Laurent stood, rooted to the spot, filled with heartache and anger at the injustice of it all. It should be his uncle’s head hanging there, he thought viciously. 

_Falada,_ he said. _Falada, look what they’ve done to you._

Then Laurent started, because there was _something_ – a whispered word soft as a spider’s footstep in his head, and though Falada’s glass eyes were dark and empty, they seemed to shine for a moment. Laurent strained to hear the word, but he could not understand. 

_Falada_ , he pleaded.

But the glass eyes stared blindly at nothing, and there was no reply. 

*

Damen was furious when Laurent told him about what the knacker had done to Falada. Laurent had never seem him angry, and it startled him. But it also filled him with a sort of satisfaction, knowing that Damen would have readily marched off to teach the man a lesson if Laurent had asked him to. But Laurent persuaded him not to beat any butchers to a pulp, though he did entertain the idea briefly. 

“What he did was cruel,” Damen seethed, “and he went directly against Damianos-Exalted’s orders –”

“Technically, he didn’t,” Laurent pointed out. “He gave the horse a memorial, albeit in a twisted sort of way.”

“The Veretians have a hand in this, I’m sure of it,” Damen muttered, and turned his gaze to Laurent, eyes softening. “I’m so sorry. It must have been painful for you to see that.”

“It was,” Laurent agreed, leaning his head against Damen’s shoulder. “But…in a way it is also comforting, to see him again. The taxidermy was done very well; I can almost pretend he’s alive, from the right angle.”

Damen made a thoughtful sound. “Do you want me to tell them to take it down?”

Laurent did, but at the same time his heart ached when he thought of never seeing Falada again. “No,” he murmured. “No, but thank you for offering.” He looked up at Damen. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. For me, and for him. I…” He bit his lip. “I wish there was something I could do for you in return.”

Damen smiled and shrugged. “Being able to spend time with you is recompense enough.”

“Spend time with me?” Laurent echoed, raising an eyebrow and leaning more heavily against Damen’s side. “Doing what, exactly? Because I can’t imagine chatting is very rewarding for you; half the things I say to you are sarcastic or thinly-veiled insults.”

Damen laughed lightly. “You have a very sharp tongue, it’s true. But I like that about you.”

Laurent leaned close. “Do you, now?” he said, voice low and uneven, and when he pressed his lips to Damen’s it was different than the last time. There were no tears, and he did not feel as if his heart would burst. Strangely, Laurent did not really feel anything, but Damen’s mouth moved with his own, chaste and slow, and he felt obliged to continue, shuffling up to him until one of his hands rested on Damen’s thighs. 

Damen cupped his jaw, and Laurent pressed into it, dizzy and vaguely panicked but also not certain he could stop now that he had started. A muscle in Damen’s thigh shifted under his palm and he shivered and moved his hand up and over it, up until the fabric of Damen’s chiton brushed his fingers and then hot, damp skin and –

Damen caught his wrist and pulled away from the kiss. Laurent, breathless, stared at him, heart beating out a frantic rhythm in his chest. Damen’s expression was troubled. “You do not owe me that,” Damen told him quietly, firmly. “Do not ever feel as if you owe me that.”

Laurent flushed, brows drawing together. “You cannot bring me gifts and do me favors and expect me to believe you want nothing in return.”

“I want your company,” Damen replied plainly. He frowned, and touched Laurent’s face lightly. “I would be lying if I said I did not desire you. You are beautiful, one of the most beautiful people I have ever met, and among the cleverest also. But I only want what you would give me, freely, not because you think you owe me some debt. Which you do not.”

Laurent narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying you _haven’t_ been plying me with food and books in order to fuck me?”

Damen’s eyes went comically wide. “What? No! Is that what you – all this time, you thought –”

Laurent folded his arms defensively. “Well, what was I supposed to think? No guard, not even a palace one, would be so kind to a servant without an ulterior motive in mind.”

Damen spluttered. “We are in a _field_!” he exclaimed, clearly mortified. It was rather cute, actually. “An open field! Where would we even – did you think I would just – with you – right here?!”

“Not entirely open,” Laurent said dryly. “We’re sitting under a tree. There are more trees right over there. And the grass is fairly tall in some places.”

“There are geese everywhere!” Damen cried.

“I could ask them to look away.”

Damen put his head in his hands. “You thought I was _seducing you_.”

Laurent eyed him. “Isn’t that exactly what you were doing? Are doing, still?”

Damen peeked at him through his fingers. “I…I was thinking more along the lines of courtship.”

Then it was Laurent’s turn to blush. “You’re… _courting_ me?”

“I…suppose?” Damen flailed his hands around. “I mean, at first I truly only had friendship in mind, but then I…got carried away.” He sighed. “I often get carried away. But Lykos, I swear to you, I never thought to…to just bed you and be done with it.” He reached out and squeezed Laurent’s arm earnestly. “I enjoy talking with you, picnicking with you, sitting here with you. Spending time with you.”

“So you’ve said.” Laurent hesitated. “I have never…done this before.”

“This?” Damen echoed.

“Must you make me say it?” Laurent huffed. “This. Courting. Picnicking. Kissing. Whatever it is that we do.”

“Oh,” Damen said, soft and seemingly captivated. “Truly? But you are so…”

“Beautiful, yes, you’ve said that already,” Laurent grumbled, but he was fighting a smile. 

“I was going to say sure of yourself,” Damen replied. “You are so sure of yourself.”

Laurent blinked. “I…do not feel so sure, when I am around you.”

“Hmm,” Damen said, smiling. “Is that a good thing?”

Laurent lifted his hand, and let it slide over Damen’s neck and shoulder, feeling the strength in the corded muscles that relaxed at his touch, marveling at how his hand could not even come close to covering Damen’s bicep. He was really too ridiculously large for his own good. Laurent told him this.

Damen laughed, and covered Laurent’s hand on his shoulder with his own, rubbing his thumb over Laurent’s palm. “Is that off-putting for you?” he asked, amused. 

Laurent pretended to think about it. “It might be, if you weren’t such a gentle beast.”

“Beast?” Damen chuckled. “Not very flattering.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a giant animal.” Damen furrowed his brow. “A giant, handsome animal with eyes like a puppy,” Laurent added.

Damen batted said puppy eyes at Laurent. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Laurent swatted at him, both of them grinning.

Then Damen blinked at him, head tilting, and said, “You’re wearing a different headscarf, aren’t you?”

Laurent reached up, self-conscious, fingering the edge of the dull purple fabric. “Oh,” he said. “Yes, the other one got, ah, dirty. Stained beyond repair, and ripped besides. I’m…I’m borrowing this one, actually.” It belonged to Vannes.

Damen blinked again. “Oh. I’m sorry. The blue one was very nice.” 

“Yes,” Laurent said. “I liked the blue one very much.” He hesitated. “It was given to me by a good friend.”

“Was your necklace also given to you by a good friend also?” Damen asked curiously.

“My –” Laurent’s hand flew to his throat, and he felt the cord there. “No,” he said. “It…it was given to me by my brother. Or, well, my brother’s wife.” He drew it out from his shirt and they both studied the stained glass pendant. 

Damen seemed surprised. “You have a brother?”

“Well, yes,” Laurent said, tucking the pendant back into his chiton. “What, did you think I simply sprung from the Forest, birthed from the trees themselves, like some fantastical dryad with no family to speak of?”

“I suppose not,” Damen chuckled. “Although you are as lovely as a dryad. And I do meet you under a tree.” His gaze flickered. “But perhaps it is for the best that you are a mere mortal…few dryads have happy endings in the myths.”

“The ones who stay away from strange men do,” Laurent said. “And I don’t see any strange men here, so I think I’m safe.”

Damen’s lips quirked. Laurent kissed his smug smile away.

*

A few days later, Damen gave him a new headscarf. Laurent took it, wide-eyed, the pale blue fabric soft silk that made his old headscarf feel like burlap. 

“Do you like it?” Damen asked. “I thought the lighter blue might match your eyes.”

Laurent flushed, still holding it uncertainly. “Yes, this is…thank you. You didn’t have to –”

“I wanted to,” Damen assured him. He bit his lip. “Aren’t you going to try it on?”

Laurent froze. Oh. Oh, no, of course Damen expected him to try it on – but Laurent couldn’t let him see his hair. Even though he somewhat doubted that Damen would make the connection, if there was even a chance that he could draw the conclusion between yellow hair and Veretian…Laurent couldn’t risk it. He faltered, mouth dry. 

Damen looked at him worriedly. “Lykos? You don’t have to try it on, I just thought…”

“No, it’s not that,” Laurent said quickly, “I like it, I do. I just…you have to close your eyes.”

Damen raised his brows. “What do you have under there?” he teased. “Feathers? Horns?”

“Close them,” Laurent warned. “Please.”

Damen’s brow furrowed, bewildered, but he nodded and closed his eyes. “Alright, alright.”

“No peeking.”

“Got it.”

Heart pounding, Laurent hoped he wasn’t making a terrible mistake as he unwound the purple scarf from his head, golden hair tumbling down in a short, messy braid. He kept his eyes on Damen’s face, ready to throw the purple scarf over it like some kind of makeshift blindfold if he went back on his promise. But Damen kept his eyes shut patiently as Laurent replaced the old scarf with the new one, painstakingly checking that no yellow strands had escaped before finally saying, “You can open them now.”

Damen did, and his face split into a smile, reaching out cautiously and smiling wider when Laurent allowed Damen’s hand to cup his jaw. “It looks as lovely as I imagined on you.”

“Pshh, stop,” Laurent muttered, embarrassed. “I suppose you enjoy seeing how flustered I get when you bring me such thoughtful gifts.”

“Flustered is a good look on you,” Damen told him, grinning.

“Hmph,” Laurent protested, but when Damen leaned in and kissed him gently, he melted into it.

*

That night at dinner, Vannes looked at him strangely when he handed her the purple headscarf. “Thank you for letting me borrow it,” Laurent said.

She raised an eyebrow. “Got yourself a new one?” He nodded. “With what coin?”

Laurent shrugged. “I have my ways.”

Vannes thinned her lips, then reached out and touched the edge of the new scarf. Her eyes widened. “This is _silk_ ,” she hissed. “How on earth –”

“Quiet,” Laurent hissed back. “I…” He sighed, stirring his soup pensively. “I have a friend.”

Vannes sat back in her chair, disbelieving. “A friend,” she repeated flatly. “Hear that, Talik? Lykos has a _friend_.”

Talik glanced up from a heated card game with Pallas. She gave Vannes a quizzical look. “Congratulations…?” Vannes let out an aggravated sigh. Talik, nonplussed, turned back to her cards. Laurent sipped his soup. 

“I know what you’re going to say,” Laurent murmured. “But it’s not like that. I can take care of myself.”

“Sure you can,” Vannes snapped. “I’m not a fool, Lykos. No common _friend_ can afford to buy silk headscarves for goose boys.”

“We’re not fucking, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Laurent said. He paused. “Yet.”

Vannes threw up her hands. “I can’t believe you.” She lowered her voice. “It would be bad enough if you were just a goose boy, but we both know you aren’t. If this friend of yours gets too nosy –”

“He won’t,” Laurent said, though not with any degree of certainty. “But if he does…I don’t know. I think I trust him not to tell.”

“You trust him,” Vannes gritted out. “Oh, excellent. And just how do you think he will react when he finds out that your little tryst can’t continue? That you were just using him, knowing full-well he could never be anything more than a pleasant distraction to you –”

Laurent dropped his spoon; it clattered in the nearly-empty bowl. “Enough,” he said, half-pleading.

Vannes scrutinized him, and paled. “You care for him,” she whispered. “Oh, no. You’re not using him; you’ve actually fallen for –”

“I said enough,” Laurent snapped, picking up his bowl and standing abruptly. But Vannes was no timid pageboy; she did not wilt under his imperious, princely glare. She just folded her arms and shook her head at him, and he felt her piercing gaze on him as he set his bowl on the counter and left. 

*

When Damen arrived the following day, he was angry. 

Laurent knew the anger was not directed at him – Damen made an effort to suppress his evident frustration, and forced smiles and tried to laugh, but it when it became clear that his foul mood was going nowhere, Laurent confronted him.

“The state of things must be bad if I’m the one making most of the jokes,” Laurent said, peering at him. “Are the Veretians acting up again? Or perhaps the Crown Prince is being particularly difficult?”

Damen sighed, tipping his head back against the tree. “I’m sorry,” he said heavily. “I came here to escape the trouble at the palace, and I’ve just brought it with me.”

“Trouble?” Laurent asked, wary. 

“There are rumors afoot,” Damen said dismissively. “The Veretians’ patience is running thin, as is the King’s…the marriage of Vere and Akielos looms on the horizon.” His mouth twisted wryly. “Any day now, half the court will be spirited off to the summer palace for the wedding.”

“Oh,” Laurent said, gut twisting. “And you are upset by this?”

“Of course I am –” Damen stopped, jaw working. “It is just a very tense time,” he said. “And I find myself in increasingly difficult and frustrating positions; positions I never wanted to be in.”

“Hm,” Laurent said. He wanted to reach out and smooth over the lines in Damen’s brow, but instead he touched his jaw, light and purposeful. “What about this position?” he asked, breath on Damen’s lips. “Do you want to be here? With me?”

Damen’s mouth twitched in the first real smile of the day. “Lykos, you know I always want to be with you.”

“So be with me,” Laurent murmured, hand curving around his neck. “Forget the palace and the rumors and the wedding, just for a little while.”

Damen’s gaze fell to his lips, body turning as if drawn towards Laurent by some magnetic force. “Help me forget,” he murmured back, and Laurent kissed him and this time Damen’s mouth opened to him and Laurent made a small sound of surprise that Damen swallowed greedily, and then his tongue was at Laurent’s lips. Kissing had been so soft and sweet and suddenly it was hard and filthy as Laurent’s lips parted, Damen tongue finding his own. 

Laurent pressed back into it, trying to memorize the way Damen kissed him, lips hot as a brand, tongue insistent and slick, teeth clashing until Damen angled their heads in a different, smoother way. Laurent’s nails dug into Damen’s neck and Damen’s pulse beat fiercely under his fingertips. _More, more, more,_ was all Laurent could think, half-delirious with the onslaught of sensations he had never felt before.

Laurent didn’t entirely know how it happened, but eventually he ended up in Damen’s lap, straddling strong brown thighs and kissing Damen deep and messy and open-mouthed, so good that he was dizzy with it. Damen made a low sound in his throat that was full of want and Laurent shivered under his hands as they settled on his waist, sliding through the sleeve of the chiton and up his bare back, tracing the curve of his spine. His touch was slow and undemanding and Laurent couldn’t get enough, lost in the warmth and bulk of Damen against him, breath coming out in small hiccups when the kiss broke and Damen’s mouth found his neck, sucking lightly at the sensitive flesh. 

Laurent moaned, quiet and unexpected, and Damen’s grip on him tightened, his hips shifting under Laurent’s. Laurent shifted right back, and gasped at the swelling heat against his own, separated only by two thin layers of fabric. This was – he was – they were –

Damen groaned and bit at his collarbone, eyes half-lidded. “So beautiful,” he whispered, and Laurent shuddered, hips rolling against his own accord in uncertain, aborted half-thrusts. Damen swore in Akielon, words muffled in Laurent’s shoulder, and Laurent was startled to see that he was shaking too, as desperate and helpless to this feeling as Laurent was. Emboldened, Laurent reached between them, palming the promising bulge in Damen’s gilded chiton, and Damen cursed again, louder, arching up into it shamelessly. 

Laurent thought maybe he should have been scared; in the very least nervous. But instead he felt strangely powerful, and when he fit his hand around the shape of Damen through the fabric, slick against his palm, it was intoxicating. He let his hand work at it, twisting and kneading experimentally, and when Laurent found the head and thumbed over it firmly through the translucent silk, he felt it actually twitch in his hand. Damen clutched at his waist, trailing kisses up his neck and then finally to his mouth again, and when Laurent bit his lower lip he groaned and shuddered and then Laurent felt him spill; sticky heat soaking through the chiton and across Laurent’s hand. Laurent drew in a sharp breath as Damen slumped back, sated, blinking at him dazedly.

“Lykos,” Damen whispered, gaze warm and disbelieving. He cupped Laurent’s face. “Can I touch you?” he asked.

Laurent swallowed, knowing he must be utterly scarlet. He didn’t think his voice would come out right, so he just nodded jerkily, and tucked his face into Damen’s chest. He was hyperaware of everywhere Damen touched him, calloused fingertips ghosting along his side and then, shockingly, into his chiton, hand curling around where Laurent was still aching. Laurent jolted, eyes flying wide.

“Good?” Damen murmured into his ear, and Laurent tilted his hips forward in reply, trembling as Damen’s hand slid surely along the length of him, enveloping him in tight warmth. Pleasure darted through him with every touch, and when Damen’s thumb caught the underside of the tip Laurent _keened_ , clinging to Damen and moving with him, overwhelmed by nothing more than his hand. Part of him was ashamed at how sensitive he was, at how fast this was going to be over – but then again, Damen had come first. 

“Slower,” Laurent choked out, lifting his head and meeting Damen’s gaze. “Damen –”

“Shhh,” Damen murmured, smiling, and pulled him in for a kiss, hand slowing obediently, fingers circling the base of his cock and stroking at his inner thighs, which would have been ticklish if Laurent wasn’t so far gone. As it was he wanted Damen’s mouth there, wanted him to suck bruises into the tender white flesh, wanted him to bite enough to feel it, wanted Damen to mark him, to claim him, so that Laurent would have proof of this; would be able to look at the marks on his skin and know that Damen had made them, _only Damen had touched him_ –

Laurent came with a muffled sob against Damen’s lips, jerking away from the kiss and trembling through the remainder of his climax with Damen’s arms around him; holding but never restraining. Laurent didn’t move for what felt like a long time after, except to lift his hand and press his palm over Damen’s heart, counting the beats in his head. He’d reached five hundred and three when Damen broke the silence.

He nudged gently at Laurent until he rolled off and away, feeling suddenly sticky and exposed. Damen wasn’t looking at him, lower lip caught between his teeth. “It’s getting late,” he murmured. “I should go…before Nicaise returns.”

Laurent swallowed back the strange fear twisting in his gut. “Alright,” he whispered, standing unsteadily with him, adjusting his clothes, trying to dismiss the uncomfortable tension between them. Damen was still looking away, shoulders hunched. He almost looked…guilty. Ashamed. Laurent hesitated. “Is…is everything alright?” He wrung his hands, his palms clammy. This was foreign territory, and Laurent felt lost and uncertain and _afraid_. “Was that…was it…bad?”

Damen did look up then, and Laurent was unsettled by the sadness in his eyes. He braced himself for rejection. But instead Damen’s arms were around him again, bringing their lips together firmly, almost desperately. Laurent kissed back, albeit with less searing passion, confused by the intensity of it. When Damen broke away he leaned their foreheads together, cupping the back of Laurent’s neck, careful not to disturb the headscarf.

“It was perfect,” Damen told him quietly. “You are…you are perfect. I want you to know that, no matter what happens.”

Laurent searched his face, uneasy. “Damen…?”

But then Damen stepped away, though it looked as if it physically hurt him to do so, and called his horse. Laurent leaned against the tree, outwardly cool and composed as ever, though inside he was a tangled mess of apprehension, a knot tied too many times over. 

Orion trotted over, and Damen took ahold of the reins. He turned back to Laurent. “Goodbye,” he said, flashing him a smile, but it lacked warmth, like the sun on a winter day. “Goodbye, goose boy.”

And then, just like that, he was gone, a dark silhouette fading in the distance, with Laurent watching him, the sinking feeling of loss in his chest. 

*

The letter arrived the next day.

Ancel delivered it to him in the pasture with all his usual pomp and circumstance. Laurent broke the seal idly, smiling as he recognized Damen’s handwriting. But as he read the letter’s contents, his smile fell from his face, crumpling like the paper in his hands. 

_L –_

_I do not know how to write this. This is the fifth draft and it still isn’t good enough. I told you matters were bad at the palace – they are only getting worse. I cannot return to your pasture and your geese and you, even though I want to, more than anything. I cannot love you the way you deserve to be loved. I’m sorry. I could not help myself, and now I have hurt you. I do not expect you to forgive me. If you sent your geese after me, I would not blame you._

_– D_

Laurent struggled to keep his face impassive. 

Ancel eyed the crumpled paper with trepidation. “Bad news?” he ventured.

Laurent laughed bitterly, head falling back against the tree. “Who gave this letter to you?” he asked.

“My…my chamber-lord, as usual –”

“Well,” Laurent said, slow and vicious, “you can tell him to tell the person who gave this letter to him that he can go fuck himself.” Ancel’s eyes widened. Laurent raised an eyebrow. “Did I stutter?”

“N-no, but I couldn’t possibly –”

“Get out of my sight before you find out just how sharp goose teeth are,” Laurent warned, and Ancel almost tripped and fell in his haste to leave, red hair streaming out behind him.

When he was gone, Laurent cried into the scarf Damen had given him, clutching the letter to his chest like the heartbroken fool he was. 

 

At dinner, Laurent was sullen and silent. Vannes noted his puffy eyes and gave him the rest of her soup. 

“Not going to say ‘I told you so’?” Laurent muttered.

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry. Did…did he make you happy?”

Laurent closed his eyes, remembering warm skin and eyes and laughter, hours spent talking and eating, playing with geese and horses, reading fantastic stories, a soft voice singing, strong arms holding him, keeping him safe. 

_I cannot love you the way you deserve to be loved._

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, he did.”

Vannes squeezed his arm and when the other workers demanded a story that night, she warded them off long enough for Laurent to slip out the door and into his room, where he lay in his cold bed and thought of warmer days. 

*

But the days just got colder, and though it did not snow in Akielos it did rain, freezing sleet that soaked the earth and made lakes of the pastures and rivers of the streets. The geese stayed in their pens, and Laurent found himself confined to the workers’ hall most days, trying to forget Damen amongst the lively chatter of his worker friends. It didn’t quite work, but spending time with them did help to ease Laurent’s despondency. 

What did not help, though, was the news Adrastus gave them one foggy afternoon. “Two Veretians came here this morning, armor and swords and all, said they were looking for another yellow boy, one of their own company who got lost in the arrival. They told me he’d have the hair and the accent and that they had reason to believe he might be here.” Adrastus shook his head as if repulsed by the idea. “I sent them on their way and told them we don’t keep foreigners here, but they insisted I pass the news on to you all anyway.”

Nicaise scowled. “Why would one of the prince’s boys be here? They ought to look in the palace, or the graveyard.”

Vannes had gone still beside Laurent. They shared a small, secretive look. Vannes piped up. “Nicaise is right. No fancy Veretian would dirty his precious pale hands here. Imagine, a little blond noble up to his elbows in pig shit!”

The hall erupted into raucous laughter. Laurent snorted, and kicked her under the table. “Goose shit,” he corrected in a whisper. 

“Of course, Your Highness,” she said, laughing.

Despite the news that his uncle knew he was here and was likely to be searching everywhere, Laurent felt strangely giddy. There was no reason for him to stay in Akielos any longer. They had killed Falada. Damen was gone. Every month Laurent collected a thin silver coin as pay, and by the time spring thawed the chill air and dried up the torrential monsoons, he would have enough saved up to buy supplies and his way into a trading company headed for Vere. 

Yet Laurent was not looking forward to spring. He knew he would be welcomed back home with open arms, and Auguste and Eliska would be there for him, but he had no illusions about what would happen when he told his father of his uncle’s betrayal. There would be war – his father would have to send a force to apprehend his uncle and his uncle was likely to persuade King Theomedes that it was an invasion, in the very least a show of power. 

Laurent feared for the future. He spent his days thinking up possible ways to avoid incurring Akielon wrath and Veretian destruction, yet he knew he would have little chance of persuading his father to see his way. Not for the first time, Laurent wished that he had his uncle’s gift of people-speaking. Oh, it was a cruel, manipulative power, but if Laurent had been blessed with it instead of being able to speak with beasts –

No. Wishing for something he could never have was useless. Besides, this was the gift his mother gave him, and it had saved his life more than once. And now that Damen was gone, Laurent took comfort in talking to the geese, simple though their language was. Gus questioned him once about where the “large man with dark feathers” had gone. _Away,_ Laurent had replied shortly, and Gus had cocked his head.

 _Far away?_ Gus had sounded disappointed. Damen had often tossed him scraps of food; that was all he cared about. 

_He is gone,_ Laurent had snapped, and the geese had sensed his distress and crowded around his feet, squawking. Nicaise had shaken his head and stomped off, leaving Laurent to clean the rest of the pen himself, but Laurent didn’t mind. Geese were not very good at comforting people, but they tried their best, and Laurent took Gus and his mate back to his room that night. His bed was a little less lonely with the geese nesting beside him, clacking their beaks and snapping at his hair affectionately. It was a poor substitute for Damen, though.

The long-awaited festival day dawned bright and clear and cold, and despite Vannes’s trepidation, Laurent decided to go. Wintermoon was a busy time, and it would almost be stranger for him to stay back than to accompany the other workers to the market and performances. Besides, he _wanted_ to go; he wanted to make happier memories here before he left forever. And, as he had with Damen, Laurent felt safer surrounded by his fellow workers, laughing and dashing through the colorful streets with them.

The Akielon capital had been transformed for Wintermoon, with bright streamers strung between houses and shops across the streets and squares, fluttering cheerily in the crisp morning air. Everyone was delighted by the clear blue sky – there would be no rain today. The other workers were babbling about good omens, and Laurent remembered that to the Akielons, this was more than a day of merrymaking and revelry. No, they couldn’t just have fun and be done with it – they had to dedicate their festival days to one of their gods. They had so many gods; Laurent couldn’t keep track, but given that the Akielon name for Wintermoon was “Saturnalia,” he assumed it had something to do with Saturn. 

He asked Vannes who Saturn was and she hit him. 

“Did you learn nothing about Akielon customs back in Vere?” she demanded in a harsh undertone. “Seems to me that a future Prince Consort should know these things.”

Laurent rolled his eyes. “I know it is difficult to fathom, but I wasn’t overly fond of pouring over dusty volumes about scores of deities and ridiculous traditions –”

She hit him again.

“Seems to me that a subject of the future Prince Consort should be more respectful,” Laurent shot back, rubbing his arm ruefully. Vannes hit hard, and he bruised easily. 

She let out a signature long-suffering sigh. “Saturn is the god of agriculture, wealth, and liberation. He’s one of our most revered gods since those are, you know, pretty important things.” Vannes narrowed her eyes. “Do you even know what happens during the festival?”

Laurent stepped out of hitting range and said, “There’s…a carnival, right? And feasts of some sort…?”

She sighed, a bit less disappointed in him. “Yes, there is a carnival, and a feast, but first comes the temple ceremony and sacrifice.”

Laurent wrinkled his nose. “ _Sacrifice?_ ”

“It’s a boar,” Vannes said flatly. “I know you were hoping for a virgin.”

“How does bleeding out a boar help anyone –?”

“Tradition,” she hissed. “Anyway. Once the temple bit is done, the carnival begins. Performers come out and put on shows in the streets – dramas and such, some poets and bards, acrobats, magicians, the occasional dancing troupe. Towards the end of the performances, vendors hand out free treats and the Lords of Misrule play games with the crowds, choosing ‘Fools’ to carry out dares. It’s all in good fun. Last year they made Pallas dance naked with seven silk scarves.”

“We do not talk about that!” Pallas yelped. Several of the workers snickered.

Beside him, Isander giggled. “The scarves did not cover much,” he told Laurent in a conspiratorial whisper. 

“Are all the games so…lewd?” Laurent asked. 

“No, Pallas just got a particularly lewd Lord of Misrule,” Vannes said. “They’re silly dares, they’re not hurting anyone. And it’s bad form to refuse a Lord’s dare. It’s actually considered good luck to be chosen as a Fool, even if it’s a little humiliating.”

As they made their way to the temple with the rest of the crowd, Laurent hoped no Lord of Misrule would dare him. He didn’t need any unnecessary attention drawn to himself. He let the crush of people carry him along, and the sheer number of Akielons around him was overwhelming – Laurent felt sure his pale skin and blue eyes must stand out like a dove among crows, and pulled his scarf tighter around him. The fabric smelled faintly of oranges and a lump formed in Laurent’s throat.

Vannes grasped his hand and his started, giving her a sidelong glance, but she just squeezed his hand and guided him along. He was grateful for the anchor, and squeezed back, focusing on her warmth at his side as more and more people joined them. 

Laurent realized that he had not spent much time actually exploring the city, and wished he had – it was so unlike Vere, with wide avenues instead of tight, twisting passages and towering pillars instead of pointed spires. In many of the public squares and greens Laurent saw fountains crowned with sculptures of gleaming marble – rearing horses, triumphant warriors, beautiful women. He had not thought Akielos capable of such art, and immediately felt ashamed at the thought. 

His mother had told him once that Akielons were not the monsters or barbarians his father made them out to be, just different, and Laurent knew she was right. He knew, in that moment, that this was a kingdom he would be proud to rule. It was not his kingdom, yet his heart ached when he looked at the familiar faces around him, and it ached to think of war sweeping down from the north to the white cliffs of Ios, ravaging the serene city and the people within it. He thought of Pallas and Isander and Nicaise being conscripted, forced to fight against Veretian cavalry on an endless, bloodied field, and for what? His uncle’s cruelty and a misunderstanding between monarchs? Would these innocents, his friends, die on the whims of kings?

Laurent knew that common people had been dying on the whims of kings for centuries, of course. It was the way of things. But it did not seem fair to him now that they should have to sacrifice themselves, to throw themselves into the flames because a man with a crown told them they must. The king did not know these people, he did not sup with them and sleep with them and work with them and live with them. Laurent had certainly never done those things in Vere, and so the commoners had seemed distant to him, a sea of adoring faces, not people with lives and minds and dreams. How blind he had been. How blind all royals were.

The cries of the people jolted Laurent out of his troubling thoughts, and he blinked as he saw the building they had arrived at – it must be the temple, a massive open structure supported by countless marble columns, with a large courtyard under its arched ceiling that was far less crowded than the space outside. The altar was in the center of the courtyard, the boar lying upon it, presumably sedated in some way due to its lack of protest. A semicircle of whom Laurent assumed were priests stood around it, and behind them stood King Theomedes, his golden crown of laurels shining in the sunlight. 

Laurent craned his neck, trying to see past him – he spotted Lady Jokaste, belly rounder than before and gaze sharp, standing next to a tall, bearded man wearing a long red cloak. Laurent nudged Pallas and pointed. “Who’s that?”

Pallas squinted. “Prince Kastor, I think! I’ve never seen him before; the royals don’t come out much. Bet it was the Veretians who pushed them to make an appearance.” He nodded to the right, and Laurent followed his gaze reluctantly. 

When Laurent saw his uncle his blood ran cold, just at the sight of him on the raised dais with Theomedes, wearing an ermine cloak and surveying the crowd with a glint in his eye. But that was not as bad as seeing Aimeric, crown perched upon his head, wearing a new green jacket, laughing at something the man beside him had said. 

And the man beside him was Damen. 

Damen, smiling back at Aimeric, gesturing with hands that Laurent knew were broad and strong, yet always gentle when they’d touched him. Damen, wearing the very cloak they’d wrapped around each other under the beech tree. And Aimeric was talking with him, nudging him playfully and laughing again.

Laurent was too far away for Damen to see him, but he wished Damen would look and catch his gaze nonetheless, so that he could see how much he had hurt Laurent, how much Laurent hated him. Laurent knew it was not hate he was feeling, not really, but it helped to pretend that it was.

Damen stood with the other guards, clustered around Kastor. Laurent’s gaze was drawn to the man on Damen’s left side, near Kastor. His arms were folded over his broad chest, brow lowered and jaw set. He was about the same height as Damen, and seemed ill at ease with the Veretians. He said something to Damen and Damen paused, turning to him and replying, expression sobering. Aimeric pouted.

Laurent realized the man must be the Crown Prince. Damen was obviously close to him and respected him, and the man eyed Aimeric with open disdain, which was unsurprising given how Damen had described the Crown Prince’s feelings towards him. Laurent supposed the Prince was handsome, strong and well-built, but he did not make Laurent’s mouth go dry or his heart flutter like the sight of Damen did. 

But this would be the man he married if he regained his title, not Damen.

The sound of the boar squealing turned his gaze back to the altar, where the boar had just been killed, its blood soaking the stones as the priests said some sort of prayer over it. Someone lit incense, and the temple filled with a haze of scented smoke, and everyone bowed their heads. Laurent inhaled the heady scent and tried to relax, to clear his head. He had come here to celebrate, not to brood.

And celebrate he did. The ceremony dragged on a little longer, but as soon as it ended the crowd surged back to the streets in earnest, and the sound of revelry filled the air along with the scent of fresh bread and meats. Vannes tugged Laurent’s hand and they ran to one of the food vendors, who was handing out little parcels of lamb wrapped in flatbread. 

The workers dug into the strange sandwiches with gusto, and Laurent marveled at the strange spices and flavors on his tongue. They found another vendor selling a sweet sort of cream called oxygala, served in little bowls and drizzled in honey. Laurent liked that even better than the sandwiches, and savored it slowly as he and the other workers explored the bustling market stalls, exclaiming over masterful wood carvings and exotic animals. 

Laurent went with Vannes to find her family’s herbalist stall, and Laurent smelled it before he saw it – strong peppermint and lavender tea was brewing, steam rising and swirling around them as Vannes called out and then the little girl Gia was running to her, arms outstretched and smile splitting her face. Vannes caught her and scooped her up in her arms and Gia squealed in joy, hugging her sister tight. Laurent swallowed, his chest hurting again. He missed Auguste. He missed his mother. He even missed his father as he watched Vannes embrace her parents, their happiness palpable. 

A small hand tugged at his waist. Laurent looked down. Gia blinked up at him. “Hello, Lykos,” she said. “Is your family at the festival too?”

Laurent forced a smile. “No,” he said. “My family is far away.”

Her little mouth pursed in a frown, dissatisfied with his answer. “Well, then come on,” she said, and all but dragged him over to the family’s stall, where Vannes was accepting a cup of tea from her mother. Laurent felt as if he was intruding on something personal, private, not meant for him, but Vannes smiled at him and gestured for him to come closer.

“Who’s this?” Vannes’s mother asked, curious. She was a short, plump woman with straight hair and sharp features like her daughter. 

“This is Lykos,” Vannes told them. “He’s the goose boy, along with Nicaise.”

“Oh, dear, you work with Nicaise?” Vannes’s mother looked genuinely worried. She handed him a cup of tea. “Here, lemon balm, to soothe the nerves. I’m sure you need it if you have to work with that little imp.”

Vannes’s father laughed, a loud, booming sound that made Laurent jump slightly. He clapped Laurent on the back, and he almost spilled his tea. “We’ve heard tales about that one,” he chuckled. Laurent eyed him nervously. He was a large man with a bushy beard and eyebrows, gray eyes surrounded by wrinkles. Vannes had his smile. “But looks like you’ve survived unscathed, Lykos!”

“More or less, yes,” Laurent said. “There were some close calls.”

“Let me guess – they involved forks?” He shook his head, still smiling. “But enough about the imp. When did you join the workers? Where are you from? How are you liking the job so far –”

“Papa!” Vannes exclaimed, swatting at him. “Don’t interrogate him!”

“A father’s not allowed to have a friendly chat with his daughter’s handsome young friend?”

“Oh,” Laurent said, eyes widening, “no, Vannes and I are not –”

Thankfully, Laurent was saved by the blaring of a horn from the main square, and everyone looked towards the sound in excitement. “The Lord of Misrule is here!” Vannes cried, and, promising her family she’d be back, ran with Laurent to the gathering of people. Laurent wished he’d been able to finish his tea, but was quickly distracted by the woman climbing onto a makeshift stage, dressed in tight, colorful clothing strung with silver bells that jingled as she strutted forward, tossing her curls and smirking at the crowd. She wore a black domino mask, and Laurent was reminded of Veretian masquerades, both by her attire and her haughty manner.

The crowd muttered and shifted in surprise. A man from the other side of the square shouted, “Lords of Misrule don’t have tits!” prompting some scattered laughter. 

Her eyes narrowed behind her mask and she stalked across the stage towards him, cocking her hip out. “I see we have a volunteer for the first Fool of the night,” she simpered, tone falsely sweet. The laughter grew in volume, though now it was directed at the rude man. 

“Are the Lords usually male?” Laurent asked her.

She nodded, grinning. “Usually, yes. I like her, though – she seems like one of the really clever ones.”

“Wait, no –!” the man was shrieking, but the crowd kept him pinned, closing in like a pack of wolves.

“Hmm,” the Lord of Misrule said, tapping her chin. “What shall we have him do…?” The crowd shouted suggestions, but she ignored them all, her gaze falling upon the woman standing next to the man instead. “Is this lovely vision your wife?” Presumably, the man nodded, because she clucked her tongue and said, “Unlucky lass.” The crowd roared with laughter again. “Aha!” she said, bouncing on her heels. “What do you say we do a little role reversal for the day? Switch clothes and duties with your wife until dawn tomorrow!”

The crowd stomped the cobblestones with approval. Laurent laughed despite himself – the woman was not wearing a simple chiton, but a full dress with petticoats and an apron. The woman whooped in delight and began shedding her clothes in earnest, while her husband followed with far more reluctance. 

The Lord of Misrule clapped her hands, surveying the scene with satisfaction. “You look ravishing in purple, my dear.” She crossed the stage again, back to Vannes and Laurent’s side. “Now, who else is feeling foolish tonight?” To Laurent’s surprise, Vannes’s hand flew up, along with several other people…and even more surprising, the Lord of Misrule pointed at Vannes and said, “You, girl with the short hair – can you dance?”

Vannes nodded gleefully. “Yes, milord!”

She gestured for Vannes to come up onto the stage. “Then dance with me, if you dare!”

Vannes beamed at Laurent before weaving her way through the crowd, and as she left his side Laurent felt vulnerable and alone – none of the other farm workers were in sight, and Vannes was out of earshot, hopping up onto the stage and taking the Lord of Misrule’s gloved hand. Then a tall man stepped in front of Laurent, blocking his view, and the crowd crushed forward to get a better look as the women started dancing to music from a lone kithara and off-beat tambourine, both struggling not to burst into laughter. 

Laurent was shoved by a stray elbow from behind, and knocked into the people in front of him. He looked up, an apology on his lips…

…and found himself staring straight into the faces of his uncle’s men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience!!! good god this week has been hellish. long story short I am taking very hard classes and i am Utterly Overwhelmed as of late, mostly due to the fact that I put off my summer reading until the last minute and ended up having to read a 1000 page book in 5 days and write notes. FUN TIMES.
> 
> so this chap was later than usual, but as promised, I got it done eventually! hope you enjoyed the fluff, the smut, the heartache, the Vannes, and the cliffhanger ;)
> 
> and THANK YOU FOR YOUR COMMENTS <3333 i read all of them and though I don't have enough time to reply, know that I love each and every one of them (and you!)


	10. Swan Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry in advance. Hope you enjoy chapter 10, a.k.a. the Laurent Gets Hurt chapter. But he's also a badass, so maybe that makes up for it.   
> (can I get kudos for getting this long-ass chapter up in a reasonable amount of time please and thank you for your comments and constant support, it keeps me motivated!)

Laurent turned to run, heart in his throat, but another man was waiting behind him, holding a long, unsheathed knife, grinning down at him with crooked teeth. Laurent found himself yanked against the first man’s chest, the sharp point of another knife pressing into the small of his back. The man held Laurent’s wrists in a tight, sweaty grip that left no room for escape. The crowd was distracted by the performance onstage, so it was all too easy for the men to half-drag him across the square, standing close on either side of him so as to shield Laurent from the crowd’s eyes.

The man holding him, Guymar, chuckled in his ear and Laurent flinched, gritting his teeth. “It’s a shame to miss the show, but we’ll be putting on a show of our own, little prince. A _private_ show.”

“Traitor,” Laurent bit out, his Veretian accent brought out by theirs. 

One of the other men laughed and shoved him. “You’re only a traitor if you get caught. Unlucky for you.” 

“If you ever return to Vere,” Laurent hissed, “my father will string you up like the pigs you are, and gut you alive, so that you can watch as the crows pick at your entrails and the ravens take out your eyes.”

Laurent was satisfied to see the way the men winced, but Guymar was not dissuaded. “Your tongue’s as vicious as always, I see. Bet you wouldn’t be so cocky if we cut it out.”

“Not right away, though. I want to hear the noises he makes.” The men snickered nastily. Laurent seethed, trying to turn, to see Vannes and catch her eye, but it was no use. Instead Guymar’s grip on him just tightened, and Laurent froze in terror and revulsion when his face pressed against the back of Laurent’s neck, stubble scratching harshly across his skin.

Guymar inhaled deeply and chuckled. “The little prince isn’t smelling so princely these days. What, no one here offers to bathe you and drench you in scented oils? Maybe your uncle will let me do that, later.”

Laurent twisted away with a snarl. “I’ll bite your cock off –” He struggled in earnest, and some of the people around them took notice, perhaps wondering why foreign guards were manhandling a mere laborer. But none interfered. Guymar and the others pushed him along but when they reached the edge of the square Laurent began to panic, and wrapped a leg around a passing horse post, not caring how undignified it must look. One of the men kicked it free, hard, and pain lanced up his thigh; still he resisted. He opened his mouth to scream, but only managed a squeak before a fist connected hard with his stomach, knocking the air right out of him.

Laurent stumbled, the jab of the knife forcing him onward, desperation filling him. He could not draw in enough breath to scream again, but after several feet of winded limping, he managed to whisper, “My uncle is using you all. Once Vere discovers your treachery, he will not protect you. You’re just pawns to him.”

“Ay, we’re pawns,” one of the men agreed easily. “But we’re paid pawns, little prince, and your uncle pays us well.”

Another man nodded. “Never thought I’d go from a mercenary to a palace guard. Now that’s a promotion. Got enough coin to buy all the ale and whores a man could ever want.” 

“I pity you,” Laurent rasped, still winded. “So desperate you’d throw aside your humanity for some gold.”

“I pity _you_ ,” Guymar muttered. “Your uncle isn’t pleased with you, little prince.”

Laurent sneered. “My uncle won’t be pleased with me until I’m six feet under or in his bed.” Guymar shoved him again, and Laurent hissed in a pained breath, his ribs aching. They marched him up the street and were beginning to attract more looks. Laurent knew they would soon be out of earshot from the square, and desperation pounded through him with the frantic beat of his heart. He saw opportunity in the several dozen gray pigeons pecking at crumbs in the gutter just up ahead. They cooed nervously to each other, bobbing their heads back and forth. _Hurry, eat before the frost, hurry, eat the bread, hurry_. 

Laurent inhaled as deeply as he was able and called to them in a shrill cry. _From the street, cats! Fly away! To the square!_

The panicked pigeons surged into the air in a dark wave, towards the crowded square, wings beating hard and loud in ungainly flaps that rose above the noise of the people. The crowd shifted in surprise and looked up as the frenzied birds landed among them, but Laurent did not get to see if Vannes had noticed because he was hit in the gut again and landed hard on the cobblestones, bruising his face as he fell. 

“Witch,” one of the mercenaries muttered, equal parts fear and disgust, and Laurent’s hands curled into fists and something rose inside of him, something that would really scare them, but he did not know what it was nor how to use it and so it fizzled out as quickly as it had come, banished by the vicious kick to his side. 

“Walk, or I will carry you on my knife, little prince,” Guymar warned. 

Laurent turned his face, lip curling. “I will not. What are you going to do about it?”

“We’ll drag you if we have to. Grab his legs.”

Laurent felt the slight movement of air behind him as one of the men crouched to hobble his ankles, and lashed out, his foot striking flesh with a satisfying _crack_. The man snarled in pain and stumbled away. Guymar’s knife dug into his spine with increasing pressure. _My chiton is going to get stained_ , Laurent thought distantly. 

“The bitch broke my nose –!”

“Move,” Guymar repeated. 

Laurent was not going to do anything they ordered him to. He did not care if it ended in carnage. He was a prince. He would not relinquish that; not now, not ever. So he looked up at Guymar from where he lay sprawled on the street and said, quite clearly, “Drag me. Carry me. Stab me. Make a scene. But you cannot make me go anywhere with you.”

“Is that a challenge, little prince?” The knife drew blood. 

The sound of bells jingling filled the air. “I see we have true Fools in our midst today, friends.” 

Laurent looked up, and saw the Lord of Misrule standing in all her glory with Vannes at her side and a veritable mob of grim-faced Akielons behind them. They were the most beautiful people he had ever seen. When Laurent shifted, revealing the blood on his back, he swore he saw murder in Vannes’s eyes. He had no doubt that she would have tried to kill Guymar where he stood if the Lord of Misrule and a couple of burly men hadn’t taken charge of the situation first.

“What’s your business here?” one of the Akielon men growled, hefting a javelin that made Guymar’s knife look like a child’s toy. 

“Official business,” Guymar replied coolly, drawing from his chest a parchment emblazoned with the red Akielon seal, and for a moment Laurent’s fear returned, but as he looked at the crowd he realized that these were not royal guards, and they did not care about a piece of paper, official or not. Guymar did not seem to realize this, because he continued, “We have fair claim here. This boy is dangerous, and it is our job to contain him –”

“Dangerous?” the other man exclaimed in disbelief. “He is half your size and age, and unarmed!”

“He is not who he says he is –”

“Help me,” Laurent pleaded, in his best Akielon Forest boy accent. “They hurt me. They want to hurt me more.”

Guymar made a move towards him and the Lord of Misrule stepped forwards, her voice strangely familiar as she said, “You’d best move away from him if you value your hands, Veretian. The sacrifice is done, but the gods are always willing to accept the blood of the wicked and cruel.”

“We are carrying out the King’s orders –”

“No,” she said, “you are not.” She nodded at the two men, who flanked her, both with weapons drawn. “You have no business here with this boy.”

“How dare you –”

“I believe we should teach them a lesson, lest they forget exactly how unwelcome they are here.” She inclined her head, and before Laurent could so much as blink, one of the men had impaled one of the Veretians on his javelin, a clean strike through the chest that sent him crumpling without a sound. Guymar and the others backed away, white with shock. 

“The King will hear about this,” Guymar said, voice trembling, and turned on his heel and fled with the rest of the mercenaries. 

As soon as they had gone, the same man who had stabbed the Veretian offered Laurent a hand, brow creased with concern, and Laurent took it, swaying slightly. No sooner had he gotten to his feet, Vannes was at his side. “You’re bleeding,” she whispered. 

“A scratch,” he said, but when she touched the shallow cut lightly he winced. 

“Damn Veretians,” one of the men muttered. He patted Laurent on the shoulder and retreated with his friend, sheathing his bloodied javelin and shaking his head. “Only they would try to ruin a festival day.”

Slowly the crowd dispersed, and the mercenary’s corpse lay on the ground, untouched, ignored by the Akielons like a pile of horse dung. The Lord of Misrule took his arm, her grip surprisingly gentle, and guided him across the square to a quieter corner. “Thank you,” he said to her and Vannes, still hovering next to him as if more attackers would spring up at any moment. “You saved my life.”

“We must stop meeting like this, Lykos,” the Lord of Misrule replied, smiling, and then she took off her mask and…

“ _Kashel_?”

“I have been practicing my Akielon accent,” Kashel said proudly. “I always wanted to wear one of these jingly costumes.”

Vannes raised her eyebrows. “You two know each other?”

“Yes!” Kashel said. “I am from a Vaskian clan in the Forest. Lykos is…” She trailed off.

Vannes shook her head. “I know his story,” she murmured. “So you are one of the Vaskians who nursed him back to health.”

“Yes,” Kashel said. “And now it seems we must do it again. Come. We can bandage that for you.”

“And my mother is sure to have some healing herbs to help you,” Vannes added.

“Thank you,” Laurent said again, looking back at the Veretian body on the streets, filling the gutter with blood. “Thank you.”

*

So it was that Laurent visited the Vaskian market stall once more, where he was firmly patched up with a mild scolding from the older woman; and then they returned to Vannes’s family’s stall where Laurent found himself well and truly fussed over. Vannes’s mother made him a poultice to cover the wound with, and Vannes’s father waxed poetic about “barbaric Veretians,” which was so very ironic that Laurent would have laughed, if his ribs didn’t hurt so much. Gia gave him tea and sweets in between asking Kashel incessant questions. 

Vannes sat beside Laurent, a blanket around their shoulders, sipping tea.

“I know you told me they were after you,” she murmured. “I just…never imagined they would actually find you.”

Laurent sighed. “My uncle is…persistent. They were bound to find me eventually.”

“I saw your birds,” Vannes said after a beat. “That was you, right?”

“Yes,” he said. “I told them to fly to you.”

“Somehow, that’s the most believable thing that’s happened today,” Vannes admitted. “Do you speak to the geese, too?”

“I speak to the beasts,” Laurent replied. “Mostly the birds and the horses.”

“Hm.” Vannes tilted her head. “What sorts of things do horses say?”

Laurent swallowed and looked down at his hands. “Nothing important,” he said.

*

After the sky began to darken and the festivities tapered off, Laurent said goodbye to Kashel, took the little piece of thornroot Gia offered him, and returned with Vannes to the workers’ hall. That night at dinner the workers gathered ‘round with wide eyes and chins in their hands as Vannes recounted the events of the day. Laurent added to the story when prompted, but mostly he stayed quiet on the bench, watching the way the workers’ expressions changed from confusion to shock to anger to awe. 

The goose boy had been seized by foreign men and forced to walk up the street with a knife at his back. The goose boy had refused to be forced. Vannes had seen him as he fell, and brought help in the form of a Lord of Misrule and two javelin-throwers. 

Adrastus had given Laurent a new chiton, eying the stained and torn one with disbelief. “What’d they want with my goose boy anyhow?” he grumbled. “Veretian men thinking they have a right to cut Akielon boys…the world’s gone mad, I say.”

The workers asked for Laurent to tell the story himself after Vannes had recounted her side of the tale, and he did, leaving out the reasons and the pigeons. “It was Vannes who brought the help,” he added.

The workers slapped Vannes on the back and gave her an extra flaouna pastry, but it was Laurent who they looked at with unadulterated awe. He was the one worth abducting, who had been bruised and scarred, but who struggled and was saved. They spoke the title of goose boy with respect. 

*

Winter days were short, spent mostly in the pens or the hall, and passed with almost alarming swiftness. Laurent clung to every hour he had left in Akielos, and for the first time felt torn between two worlds, two homes – a tangled life of gold and glass and a simple life of dirt and harmony. Of course Laurent had no illusions that life as a palace laborer was hard – they were paid little, slept on thin cots, worked long hours, never got lunch, rarely saw their families, and owned very few things besides the clothes on their backs. But it had a certain warmth and closeness that Laurent had never felt before; a certain sense of belonging, though he knew in his heart that he did not belong here, and that if the others discovered his secret that almost familial bond would be severed instantly.

Then again, Vannes knew his secret, and never treated him differently for it. Oh, Laurent saw the knowledge in her eyes sometimes – when one of the other workers insulted Vere, or treated Laurent as they would treat any Forest boy, rough and teasing. Because she knew that they were insulting a country whose prince was present, and shoving around a king’s, not a peasant’s, son. 

And some nights, Vannes would knock at his door, and they would sit on his bed together, and she would ask him to tell her about Vere. So Laurent told her tales of the beautiful palace with its gilded turrets and twisting halls, of the long days spent in the garden with his mother, of speaking to the swans, of sword fighting with Auguste, of riding Falada over the endless hills, of watching his mother fall. 

“I wish I could have met her,” Vannes whispered after Laurent told that particular story. “She sounds a lot like you.”

“Yes,” Laurent whispered back. “She was a bird with clipped wings in a strange land among people who did not understand her.” He looked away, drew in a shaky breath. “She deserved better.”

“She had you,” Vannes said. “You understood her.”

“And she understood me.” Laurent frowned at the thin white sheets. “After she died, I was alone. Auguste and my father were in Patras at the time. I had only my uncle, and…he was poor company.”

Vannes made a soft sound. “I wish I could wring his neck for you,” she said. 

Laurent was oddly touched by this. “Thank you,” he said. “I wish you could, too.”

Laurent treasured those nights with her, and dreaded the day they would end. He had not told anyone, not even Vannes, of his plans to leave. A part of him was afraid she might wring _his_ neck if he did. But he was a prince, not a goose boy, and he could not play this part forever. 

He made the most of it while he still could. He told stories in the hall every night, and often found himself weaving in details from his own life – white horses, yellow canaries, pale boys, dark towers, swans with crowns and golden feathers. Laurent found that he liked to tell stories just as much as he liked reading them. In another life, perhaps he could have been a bard. Now _that_ was a thought.

Yet, in between the storytelling and the working, he felt a presence within him, or perhaps around him; he did not know. It was the same thing he had felt when the mercenaries had shoved him to the ground and when he had fled from Govart – the feeling that he could so something _more_ , swirling just out of his reach. 

Laurent felt it most at night, when the world was still and quiet – it haunted him like a phantom hidden in the shadows, beckoning him close with invisible, insistent fingers. It did not feel alive, not quite – but it moved as if it was, and at times it seemed to whisper to him, a low rush of sound that was not sound. One night it would not leave him, and he could not sleep, so he slipped out of bed and crept down the row of little houses, trying to listen, trying to understand. 

His wandering led him somehow to the gate of the goose pasture, where Falada’s head hung silently, a phantom in its own right. 

_Falada,_ Laurent said, silently.

He remembered the first time he had heard that name, bleated from the mouth of a small, wet, gangly colt that stared at him with dark, deep eyes as Laurent repeated it back to him. He remembered also his mother telling him that he was born with a word on his tongue, too, and that someday he would find that word – only he could find it.

_Falada._

Laurent remember the last words Falada had said to him. _Something is happening, my Prince._ Falada had always called him that – never _Laurent_ or _master_ – always _my Prince_. Laurent strained to hear him say that one last time, not with his ears but with the part of his mind to which Falada’s voice had always come when he was alive. 

_Falada,_ he called.

And Falada’s voice came, nothing but an echo, a faint resonance from somewhere far, far away, like the sea through a shell. _My Prince._

The breeze curled around Laurent’s arms and neck and made him shiver, and still he strained to hear the comfort of Falada’s voice once more.

_Falada._

_My Prince._

Laurent started, taking a step backwards. It was the words he had expected, but they were not spoken in Falada’s voice. It was a voice he had never heard before, a voice that was not quite a voice, but he heard it loud and clear all the same. Then the winter breeze stroked once more across his skin, and the words came again, _my Prince,_ and suddenly Laurent understood. 

The wind settled into the same place inside his head where he had once heard Falada’s voice, yet it felt nothing like him. It was an icy finger of thought, a cold rush of words that expected no response, and Laurent had the distinct feeling that it was indifferent to most but intrigued by him, in the way that a lion might be intrigued by a particularly brave (or stupid) housecat. 

Laurent could feel that original hint of power in its entirety now, cool tendrils of air curling across his face, enticing. _My Prince,_ it repeated, feathering over his lips, and it was a greeting but it was also a veiled threat, because Laurent felt the breath tugged from his chest, gentle and teasing, but it made him gasp nonetheless for he knew the wind could do far worse, if it wanted to. It was light and insubstantial against his cheek, but that same wind had turned placid seas to deadly storms, felled trees, toppled buildings, killed men. 

But it responded to him, and when he lifted his hand, wondering, the breeze wrapped around his wrist and coiled in his palm like a snake about to strike, awaiting his command. A few seconds later it dissipated, impatient and capricious, and it brushed against his lips in fleeting farewell before leaving him, lifting from his skin and slipping through the gate, out to the open pasture. 

Laurent shivered, wrapping his arms around himself, equally elated and terrified. 

_You were right, Mother,_ he thought. _Even the wind has a language._

*

As the dead grass in the goose pasture began to grow back around the patches of frost, Nicaise and Laurent began taking the geese out to graze again. There was still a bitter chill in the air, which Nicaise constantly complained about, but felt familiar to Laurent – there would be snow in Vere right now, and when he exhaled in a cloud of fogged breath it reminded him of home. 

Whenever they crossed through the gate, Laurent would take up the rear of the flock and linger beside Falada’s head, listening again for the wind, waiting for it to come to him. Some days it was busy and flighty and spared no time for the hopeful goose boy, other days it curled around him like a lover’s embrace and stayed with him for hours after, whispering its secrets. 

Laurent learned, slowly, to reply to the wind – not with words, but with suggestions that it would obey only if it wanted to, and he found that often, it did. The wind seemed pleased by him, though Laurent knew it did not feel emotion the way living things did – it was more a curiosity, or an amusement. And perhaps the wind sensed his loneliness, because it would bring him scenes from the city, disjointed images of people going about their daily lives that Laurent listened to with mild interest. The wind rarely spoke in words, just flashes of pictures that fell into Laurent’s mind like memories. 

Once, he asked the wind to tell him of the lives in the palace. Images flashed through his head in reply, fast and frantic, thrones and golden hair and sharp swords and fine clothes and dozens and dozens of faces, and his hapless mind snagged on the image of Damen, sitting alone in a small room before an open window, head in his hands. Defeat slumped heavily in every line of his body, and the wind carried with the image an overwhelming impression of sadness and frustration.

_That one,_ Laurent pressed, desperate to know despite himself, _what happened to him?_

The wind shivered across his collarbones. _Legacy,_ it said, in its cold, beautiful voice. 

Laurent did not understand. He did not ask about the palace again. 

When he was not listening to the wind he was listening to the geese, smiling with absurd fondness as they squawked in sheer delight at the freedom of the pasture after so long in their pen, waddling at top speed across the slippery grass and fluffing their clipped wings. The sight made Laurent laugh the first time it happened, and he’d turned to Nicaise to make some remark, but Nicaise’s glare cut him off short.

Nicaise was in a particularly foul mood as of late, which was like saying a lemon had been particularly tart – it was not much of a change from his usual state. But Laurent noticed the way Nicaise glowered at him almost constantly, and stayed close enough to Laurent’s beech tree to eye him suspiciously instead of going off on his own as usual. One night he had announced in a mocking tone that Laurent thought he could speak to the geese.

Unfortunately for Nicaise, this prompted the other workers to begin asking Laurent for help with their own animals. Vannes and her other chicken-keepers pressed him for details about how to get their birds to lay more eggs, to stop picking at feathers, to eat more food. The girls who tended to the pheasants wanted to know how to make the two roosters stop being so mean to each other. Kallias and Erasmus even begged for help with a pesky crow that kept bothering their temperamental ram.

Nicaise’s glowering intensified. 

Laurent overheard him talking to Kallias at dinner. “He’s not normal,” Nicaise insisted in an undertone. “Just stands under that horse head and stares at it. And he actually thinks he can speak to the geese – he’s mad, I know it.”

Kallias shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “His advice with the crow worked. It’s not bothering the old ram anymore –”

Nicaise scowled at him and threw up his hands, knocking off his blue cap and upending Erasmus’s cup in the process. “Not you too! Oh, everyone just _loves_ Lykos, don’t they. But when the truth comes out…I told you so.”

“Just because Lykos is better with the geese than you are –” Erasmus started.

Nicaise grabbed a fork and Erasmus shut his mouth hastily.

Vannes told Laurent not to worry about it. “He’s petty, you know he is,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s jealous that you’re getting all the attention when he’s been here longer. Besides, he’s only fourteen…give him time to grow up.”

One morning Laurent awoke with his teeth chattering – he had taken his turn at the bathhouse that night and his hair was still damp, soaking through his pillow and his skin and making him shiver. He stuffed the wet locks into his scarf and tried not to shiver too noticeably when he went to collect the geese with Nicaise. Nicaise ignored him, as usual, but again stayed near Laurent’s beech tree, spying on him and making faces as Laurent spoke to the geese quietly, feeding Gus grass and new dandelions.

Laurent was irritated by Nicaise’s watchful eye. His hair was still wet and freezing, and so when the wind brought him images of a secluded, sunny spot in the nearby woods, Laurent glanced at Nicaise (he was watching the clouds with a scowl) and told the geese to stay before sneaking off across the stream and into the woods, following the wind’s directions until he reached a little copse of birch trees. Glancing around, Laurent made certain the coast was clear before perching on a small boulder and, slowly, unwinding the scarf from his head. 

His hair spilled forth in its loose braid, and Laurent made a soft sound of pleasure as he tugged the braid free, section by section, until his hair hung loose against his shoulders and neck. It had gotten so long, and he was almost reminded of his mother’s hair, which was a pleasant thought. His mother’s hair had been beautiful. The damp strands that he carded through his fingers were a shade darker than hers, but Laurent could not stop himself from preening slightly – his fingernails were encrusted with dirt and his clothes were worn and his skin was rough and calloused, but he still had this last bit of gold in his life.

The wind found him as it always did, a soft breeze that swept over his hair eagerly, and when Laurent suggested it lift his locks to help dry them, the wind seemed to find this a novel idea and complied. Laurent’s eyes widened, keeping himself utterly still as the wind wrapped around each strand, skating across the back of his neck and over his scalp. It was a strange but not unpleasant sensation, and Laurent let his eyes fall shut.

“Yellow boy.”

Laurent whirled. Nicaise was staring at him from between the trees, accusatory blue gaze fixed on Laurent’s hair, which still moved and swirled as if made of a thousand writhing golden snakes, though the air around Laurent was perfectly still. 

“What are you?” Nicaise asked, voice trembling, taking a step back as Laurent took one forward. 

Laurent bid the wind a silent farewell, hurrying to braid his dry hair and wrap his scarf over it again. “I’m a goose boy, Nicaise,” he said, calm and quiet. 

“No,” Nicaise hissed, “no, you’re not natural; you don’t come from here. What are you, then, a witch? A demon?”

“I’m not a…” Laurent sighed, knowing it was hopeless. “Nicaise, you mustn’t say anything to anyone about my hair. It would put you and the others in danger and –”

“No!” Nicaise exclaimed, sounding like a child on the verge of tantrum. “It’s not fair! Everyone thinks you’re the king of the geese or something, and you’re not even one of us!”

He ran back to the pasture.

Laurent waited for the consequences with mounting dread.

*

That night at dinner, the workers gathered ‘round the fire and talked about many things, and eventually the conversation shifted to their families in the forest. Talik enchanted them with stories about her Vaskian mother, and how her father’s beautiful woven blankets had made the fierce warrior woman swoon. But others’ stories were not so happy – many families had widows and widowers, donkeys and mules too old to be of any use, pitiful plots of land on which they were expected to grow enough to feed eight people, attacks on their villages by ruthless bandits that left older brothers dead or maimed. 

Laurent hoped he could return here, someday, and set things right for these people. It was a foolish idea, but his life now seemed to be woven of foolishness at times, so he did not discount it. 

Pallas leaned over and nudged his shoulder. “Lykos, what does your family sell?” he asked.

Taken off-guard, Laurent blinked and said, “I don’t know what they’re doing right now.”

Loud enough for everyone to hear, Nicaise snickered. All heads turned to him. Laurent braced himself.

“You don’t know what they’re doing right now,” Nicaise repeated in a vicious drawl. “Oh, very good.”

Kallias frowned at him. The crowd shifted nervously. Vannes, beside Laurent, tensed in confusion and trepidation.

Nicaise laughed, sneering. “Oh, how rich. He’s fooled you all. Your beloved goose boy isn’t who you think he is – he isn’t from the Forest. He isn’t even from Akielos.” His voice pitched higher, sing-song. “Oh, Lykos, you have such pale skin; your eyes are so light and exotic! Lykos, tell me what’s wrong with my duck? Lykos, help me with my chickens, they’ve been so lonely without someone to talk to! Lykos, why don’t you ask the stuffed horse head when it’s going to rain next?”

“Nicaise,” Laurent said, a note of warning in his voice. “This isn’t helping anyone.”

Nicaise’s eyes darted around. “Don’t you ever wonder why he always wears a headscarf? Have any of you ever seen his hair? Well, _I_ have. I’ve seen him out in the woods combing his hair like a princess. And you know what? _He’s_ the one those Veretian guards are looking for.”

Laurent stood up as Nicaise did, as if he could somehow stop the words from coming. He could not.

“He’s the yellow boy,” Nicaise declared.

A collective sound rose from the hall, a horrified sort of inhale, and Laurent felt all the eyes shift to him.

“Lykos?” someone said in a small voice. 

Laurent wracked his brain for some defense. It was best not to give in yet, to make the workers think that there was even a chance that Nicaise was lying. “Nicaise, I know you feel as if I’ve cheated you because the others ask me to help them. I’m sorry if you think that I’ve somehow taken what’s yours, but that doesn’t give you the right to make everyone hate me because of an unfounded accusation.”

Vannes jumped in. “You don’t have to act like such a brat all the time, Nicaise,” she added. “And lately you’ve crossed the line from bratty to outright selfish.”

His face colored, furious. “You don’t know! You haven’t seen him –!”

“Yes, I have, so shut it, Nicaise, before you do some real damage,” Vannes retorted. Her tone was angry but Laurent saw the panic in her eyes that likely matched his own. 

Nicaise narrowed his eyes. “Then tell them the truth. Tell them why perfect Lykos is always hiding behind that scarf.”

The other workers glanced at Vannes, anxious. “Yes, Vannes, why don’t you just tell us?” Erasmus asked nervously. 

“Or Lykos can just take off his scarf and prove that Nicaise is just being awful,” Talik muttered, but even she didn’t sound quite convinced. 

_Think, think, think,_ Laurent urged. You like to tell stories. So make a story. Then his gaze fell upon the fire, flames licking at the hearth and emanating singing heat, and he had one. Laurent bowed his head, folding his hands in his lap, making a show of them trembling. “I…I can’t show them,” Laurent whispered, mortified, looking at Vannes and biting his lip. “Please…I didn’t want anyone to know…it’s so ugly…”

Her brow furrowed. Praying she would understand, Laurent jerked his head almost imperceptibly towards the fire. _Burnt_ , he mouthed. It took her a moment, but then, to his relief, her eyes alit with realization. She turned back to the others, and heaved a sigh. “I’m sorry, Lykos, but…I think they should hear it. Lykos’s hair got burned off in a fire just before he came here.” She shot a glare at Nicaise. “He’s embarrassed by the scars, poor thing, and it would be cruel to make him take off his scarf just to prove Nicaise wrong.”

Nicaise spluttered. “That’s a lie and you know it! He’s the yellow boy –”

Kallias swatted at Nicaise’s head. “You need to learn when to stop,” he said seriously. “Just stop, Nicaise.”

“I’ll prove it!” Nicaise retorted, turning on his heel and stomping out of the hall. “I’ll prove it to you all!”

Vannes put a protective hand on Laurent’s shoulder, and Laurent kept his eyes averted from the other workers, hunched over his plate. He felt immeasurably guilty when Erasmus touched his arm gently and said, “For what it’s worth, I’m sure the scars aren’t ugly. But you have every right to want to keep them hidden.”

“Thank you,” Laurent forced out. “That’s. Very kind of you.”

Erasmus smiled, a bit sadly. “We all have scars we want to hide,” he said, and walked away, with Kallias close at his side, arm wrapped around his shoulders. The other workers left the hall in similar fashions, some murmuring words of support to Laurent that made the guilt pile higher and higher, others just nodding at him or offering a smile. Laurent felt physically exhausted by the time they were all gone. 

“Well,” Vannes whispered, “that was quick thinking.”

“This lie is getting out of hand,” Laurent whispered back. “Now they all think I’m not only a goose girl but a _burn victim_ , and everyone will hate Nicaise –”

“Hush. You had to save your skin, and you did,” Vannes replied. 

“Nicaise did see me,” Laurent said. “He was telling the truth.”

“They aren’t ready for the truth,” Vannes countered. “Nicaise certainly wasn’t.” Seeing Laurent’s frown, she patted his shoulder. “Hey, listen. Nobody will believe him. Alright? Your secret’s still safe, for now.”

_For now,_ Laurent thought. _But for how much longer?_

*

The next few days were sunny and warmer, the spring thaw setting in across the land. Laurent herded the geese, and Nicaise followed at a distance with incessant snide comments that made the geese agitated. Laurent ignored them, but when Nicaise started trailing after him as he checked the grass for the eggs the geese had begun to lay occasionally, his patience thinned. 

“Nicaise, leave me alone. I wish I could explain to you why I can’t tell the others the truth, but I can’t, so please stop acting like a child.”

Nicaise folded his arms and stepped forward stubbornly, arms outstretched. “Give me a strand of your hair, _goose boy_.”

Laurent narrowed his eyes. “Don’t touch me,” he said.

Nicaise, undeterred, stepped closer. The wind, without any of Laurent’s encouragement, lashed out at him, a breeze slicing over Nicaise’s neck and making his skin break out in goose bumps. Nicaise faltered, pulling his blue cap tighter over his brown curls, and backed away. The wind whistled past him. 

“Witch,” Nicaise spat, but he left Laurent alone. 

Nicaise stopped trailing him every day, and Laurent appreciated the solitude which allowed him to speak quietly to the geese, now happily paired with ganders and foraging for nesting material and fresh spring clover. Gus told Laurent proudly of his mate’s clutch, and Laurent congratulated him, but knew that he would never see Gus’s goslings. He would be long gone in the month it took for them to hatch. Laurent never thought he would find himself missing a goose, but he would miss Gus.

One especially warm afternoon, Laurent was under the beech tree reading one of the books Damen had given him while trying (and failing) not to think of Damen, when he realized Nicaise was nowhere in sight. His heart leapt, and after cautiously looking around for a few minutes, Laurent unwound the scarf and let his hair down again, welcoming the feeling of the wind’s fingers through it. 

He had at first thought the wind was passionless, empty of emotion, but wondered if he had been wrong. It certainly seemed sentient as it wound its way tenderly through his locks, tugging from time to time in a way that was almost playful. _My Prince, my prince,_ it crooned, and it went where Laurent directed it, whispering all the while. 

Then he saw the shadow of a hand reach for his wind-lifted hair and, with more instinct than thought, Laurent sent the wind towards the lunging figure. It obeyed instantly, and Laurent heard Nicaise’s cry as his blue cap was torn from his head, carried away from him across the pasture on the laughing breeze. It tossed the cap just a little faster, a little farther than Nicaise could reach, and by the time he’d finally caught it, Laurent’s hair was braided and tucked away once more. He picked up his book and continued reading.

Nicaise strode back, face pale and expression thunderous. “You’re a witch,” he snarled, pointing a shaking finger at Laurent, who looked at him with a raised eyebrow over the edge of the book. “A demon.”

“Goose boy,” Laurent corrected mildly, turning the page. 

That night at supper, Nicaise sat alone, sulking in the corner and ignoring Kallias and Erasmus’s attempts to call him over to their table. Laurent passed by and placed his flaouna pastry on Nicaise’s plate, and Nicaise accepted it with a kind of dull defeat, but his boyish face was still dark with anger. 

*

The next day, Nicaise continued to sulk, leaning against the wall by the gate and holding tight to his cap. Laurent stayed under the beech tree, reading, until he was disrupted by the wind’s familiar song. But this time, what it said gave him pause.

_Men in the woods. Five men in the woods, carrying staffs and burlap sacks. Coming towards the stream, towards the geese and the beech and the prince._  
Laurent got to his feet, looking towards the pouting boy on the wall. “Nicaise,” he called, afraid to shout. “Nicaise.” But there was no response – either Nicaise could not hear him or was just ignoring him. Either way, Laurent would have to deal with this alone. He looked towards the woods, and sure enough saw five dark figures, moving stealthily through the line of trees bordering the stream. Sunlight glinted off of metal. Laurent picked up his birch stick, and called to the geese.

_Danger, danger by the stream,_ he said. _Men with cages._

The geese, alarmed, scurried hastily away from the stream and gathered in the middle of the pasture in a squawking cloud of white. Nicaise looked up at the sound of forty-eight frightened geese, but to Laurent’s dismay, when he saw the men by the stream he went through the gate and disappeared.

The geese flapped their wings and clacked their beaks as Laurent ran to stand at the head of them, between the flock and the advancing men, birch stick held firmly in front of him. Laurent could see the men clearly now, and knew them to be bandits – they were dressed in mismatched clothes and carried not only burlap sacks but the staffs the wind had spoken of, which were tipped with wire loops perfect for hooking goose necks. 

The men did not slow when they saw Laurent. “These geese aren’t yours,” Laurent warned, and a few eyebrows went up. One of them grunted. They were just a few meters away. “These are the King’s geese, and I won’t let you take them.”

The apparent leader shook his head. “Step aside, goose boy, or we’ll have to knock you aside.”

“I will not,” Laurent said, and the leader struck out at him, breaking the birch stick in two. The flock shrieked as Laurent was knocked to his knees, landing hard, and the ganders surrounded the geese in a tight circle, hissing and showing their sharp teeth. One of the men snared Gus by the neck and pulled him in easily, shoving him into one of the bags, followed closely by another, and something in Laurent snapped. 

The wind rose around him, and the men paused, staring as it began to pick up speed, twisting around and around and bringing pebbles and plants and goose feathers with it, ripping at the earth, at the dirt and dust, until it had taken on a shape of its own, dark and menacing. The men cursed and stumbled back. The wind surrounded Laurent like a shield, and the men realized with horror that he was the cause of it as he got to his feet and stood before them. 

“A trick,” one of the men gasped, “a sorcerer’s trick –”

The wind did not take kindly to being called this, and roared its displeasure, surging towards the man who had spoken, at Laurent’s behest. The man’s eyes filled with dirt, his face and skin pelted by the stones as sharply as bee stings, and he fell to the ground with a shout, covering his head with his arms. He let go of the bag and Gus and the other gander leapt free, and the geese exploded into attack as the isolated windstorm consumed the other men. 

The men cried out as the wind bit at their faces and the geese bit at their legs, screaming for help from their gods and for forgiveness for their sins, but the wind had no god and recognized no sin, so it did not stop. Dropping staffs and bags in their panic, the shouting bandits fled back the way they’d come, pursued by the dissipating tempest and the triumphant geese all the way to the treeline. Eventually the wind lost its speed and ammunition, and was reduced to wrathful wisps, and the geese circled back to trumpet their victory, but the men kept running.

Laurent exhaled unsteadily. His skin was tingling. 

The sound of boots running jerked him out of his stupor, and Laurent turned to see Nicaise running through the gate with Pallas, Aden, and Isander in tow, all of them stopping dead as they took in the sight of Laurent standing alone, surrounded by angry, triumphant geese.

“Where are they?” Nicaise asked, coming hesitantly closer, looking at the broken poles and empty bags on the ground with wide eyes. 

“Gone,” Laurent said, heart pounding with leftover adrenaline. 

Pallas came forward, picking up the broken staff in front of Laurent. “You were attacked?”

“Yes,” Laurent said. “I defended myself. The geese helped. The bandits left.”

The three boys gawked at him. “How many were there?” Isander asked.

“Five,” Nicaise said, shocked. “There were five.”

“Well,” Aden said, shaking his head in disbelief, “that’s…something.” He clapped Laurent on the back. “If the cows are ever attacked, I know who to call for, Lykos. Good work.”

Nicaise stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly. 

“Thank you for getting help, Nicaise,” Laurent said. “I thought you’d left me for a second there.”

Nicaise scowled. “I’m no coward,” he snapped, and stomped away. 

*

At dinner the hall was filled to bursting with various renditions of how Lykos the goose boy had singlehandedly fended off five armed men. Laurent declined to tell the story of how it had happened, so Pallas and Isander took up the reins, and told the glorious story of Lykos and the Legion of Warrior Geese. Laurent smiled into his cup but stopped when he saw Nicaise in the corner, brows drawn together and mouth downturned in a way that was more miserable than petulant. 

Some of the workers left to bring back the bandits’ poles and bags as mementos, but returned with Ancel the page boy instead, who gave Laurent a nervous look and said, “The King heard of the valiant goose boy who protected his geese, and wishes to hear the story and thank those involved.”

The workers cheered. Laurent stayed in his seat, and shook his head. “I can’t go,” he whispered to Vannes. “I can’t risk them seeing me.”

Vannes nodded, expression troubled. “But you can’t refuse the King’s orders.”

Laurent turned to the corner. “Nicaise, can you go in my stead?” he asked, lowering his voice as the workers continued to spin tales of fancy that were not as fanciful as the truth. 

Nicaise’s brow furrowed. “You want me to tell King Theomedes about the great Lykos so you don’t look arrogant for telling him yourself? Ha, no.”

“No,” Laurent pleaded, “no, don’t even mention me, just tell him it was your doing – you can take the credit, I don’t care. You were involved, and you would have fought them off if you hadn’t gone to get help. Go with Pallas and Isander and Aden and say it was you three who drove them off, that’s much more believable anyway.”

“Why?” Nicaise asked suspiciously. 

“I can’t go to the palace,” Laurent said. “I just can’t. Please, Nicaise, go.”

Laurent was sure he would refuse, and then he huffed and got up, going to the door with Pallas and Isander and Aden, who shot Laurent questioning looks. “He’s being humble,” Nicaise explained to them, rolling his eyes. “Or he’s terrified of the King, more like. Come on.”

Laurent watched them go with relief, and returned to his seat. Vannes tilted her head. “You actually got him to go?”

“He just wants attention,” Laurent murmured. “And he deserves some credit, anyway.”

Vannes shrugged, and started telling some of the younger girls the story of Lykos the Geese Whisperer. 

*

Laurent retired early that night, going to the goose pens to bring Gus and his mate back to his room, and then curling up in his bed with one of the books Damen had given him, one he hadn’t started yet. He opened it to the front cover, and saw Damen’s name written there in messy black ink, a child’s scrawl.

He traced over it with a careful fingertip, chest aching as he imagined eight year old Damen, face round and eyes wide as he bit his lip in concentration to mark this book as his own. And he had given it to Laurent. Did that mean something, anything? Had _he_ meant something, anything, to Damen? Or had his fears that he was just one in a long string of lovers been proven true?

Laurent shut the book, his heart heavy, and set it aside. The geese, restless on the floor, squawked and hopped onto the bed, taking up most of it. Laurent gave it to them and sat on the floor instead, leaning against the cold wall, unwinding the scarf and tucking it into his pocket, letting his hair fall over the stones. He shut his eyes, and listened to the soft sounds of the geese, and let them lull him to sleep.

He awoke perhaps an hour later, lying on the hard floor in the corner beside the door hinges. He was confused and disoriented, and then he heard a sound from outside, a crunch of boots on loose stone, and the world sharpened as Laurent saw the reflection in the mirror Vannes had given him at Wintermoon. It was tilted towards the window, and in it he saw long, lank black hair, a large form stooped just outside, a pale eye peering in. 

Laurent went very still. The door opened slowly, and wide, and Laurent shifted farther back into his corner as the open door separated him from the rest of the room, and from Govart, who stepped into the space with surprising softness for such a large man. If Laurent had been asleep in his bed, he wouldn’t have had a chance. But he had not been, and Govart’s back was turned – he had not yet seen Laurent. Silently, Laurent rose to his feet, and edged towards the open doorway, towards escape, heart in his throat.

Govart lifted something – a dagger, Laurent realized, shining in the darkness, his hand moving towards the blanket. Under it, he would find two geese, not a prince, and he would know that Laurent was behind him. Laurent took another step towards the doorway; his toes crossed the soft line of moonlight on the threshold. One more step, and he was outside; but it was too late.

Govart pulled back the blanket.

The geese, roused by a stranger’s hand, squawked in surprise.

Govart cursed, and turned, and saw him.

Laurent ran. 

The trumpeting calls of the geese echoed through the night – _danger, enemy, attack, protect_ as Laurent’s bare feet pounded across the rough ground, slipping on wet grass and regaining his balance not a moment too soon, hearing the horrible thud of boots behind him, too close, too close, _Govart was going to catch him._

Every fiber of his being rebelled against that terrifying thought, and Laurent pushed himself faster, taking the route he knew, down the row of houses and out to the street, past the animal pens and up the footpath. Govart was panting behind him but Laurent was panting too, lungs burning as he forced himself onward, knowing that the alternative was a slow, painful death. So he dashed up the hill and down the wall, towards Falada’s head hanging above the goose pasture gate, and Laurent looked up at him as he reached it, and heard the boots behind him miss a step.

Too late, Laurent realized Govart had leapt for him, and there was a touch, sharp and sudden, and instantly pain exploded in his back, heat bursting into flame that made Laurent cry out and stumble forward, the sound ringing out agonized and animal in the silent night air. Govart’s dagger had caught his back. 

But Laurent had to keep running. Govart had fallen behind him, his leap too long for him to stay on his feet, but he would get up again, and Laurent could not be there when he did. So Laurent sprinted forward, feeling blood soak his back and drip down his legs, back screaming in protest, nerves aflame. The change from stone to grass made the running easier, and Laurent heard Govart behind him again as he leapt over the stream, water splashing up to his thighs and mixing with the blood.

Laurent glanced over his shoulder – Govart’s silhouette followed him down the hill, by the beech tree, stained dagger held high. Laurent stumbled again, a fresh wave of pain lancing up his spine, and fought to reach the treeline. Above him, dark clouds were gathering, a dry storm with lightning far in the distance, and with it came the wind. Laurent’s vision spotted and he slipped again, but the wind righted him, and then it was all around him, a hundred different winds all fighting against each other, buffeting his fragile frame and tumbling over one another like wolves at play, staying near to his skin as if sensing a kinship in his flesh and blood. 

The dark figure was close, and Laurent’s desperation reached a breaking point. The wind seemed to fill him, to choke him with its unrestrained wildness, crackling and roaring inside of him like the thunder and lightning above him. And for a moment there was no more pain, there was only a rolling, unstoppable wave of _power_ , and it was _his_.

_Strike,_ he commanded, and there was a rush, and then there was stillness, and the wind left him and slammed into Govart in a vicious wave, knocking him to the ground, tearing at his hair and his clothes and howling in his ears, keeping him down as Laurent ran away, through the woods, lightheaded and dizzy. The wind left him. He was all alone.

He kept running. 

Laurent ran until he reached the next pasture, and the next, and the next, and suddenly he was outside the city, and a distant thought entered his mind as he saw a shining lake in the distance. Laurent clung to it, and now with a destination in mind, he clung to consciousness and strained towards it, refusing to give in to the darkness at the edges of his vision.

Hours or minutes later, he did not know; he reached the lake, and then the oak, and then the forest, closing in around him. Laurent was unable to run any longer – not even his stubbornness could force his muscles any farther, and his chiton was stained all the way through, the scent of copper clinging to his skin. Laurent’s breaths came raggedly, and he limped forward, feet as bloody as his back, head hanging low and hair falling into his face in sweaty, limp strands. 

When he reached the gorge, he almost cried in relief. There was a figure at the entrance, a bow trained on him. “State your business,” she ordered, Vaskian accent ringing out through the trees. 

“Kejsarinnan,” he rasped, and her eyes widened, and he collapsed.


	11. Rule the Roost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LOVE JOKASTE AND SHE DESERVED BETTER  
> STRONG FEMALE CHARACTERS 2K16  
> ALSO NICAISE  
> enjoy

Laurent was vaguely aware of being carried, of something soft and warm against his head, of a piercing pain in his back that jolted him briefly into consciousness – he found himself lying on his stomach on a cot of furs, blood running down his spine anew as alcohol was poured over the wound, shortly followed by a needle to sew it shut. It was agony, like being stabbed all over again, this time with a dozen tiny daggers. A low whine fell from his lips and a firm, calloused hand cupped his face, another carding soothingly through his hair.

“You’re alright,” Kashel murmured. “Hush, now.” Then ice pressed to his skin and Laurent’s eyes fluttered shut, letting the cold numb him, the pricking of the needle fading to nothing, along with everything else. 

Laurent slept fitfully for some time – he had no concept of the hours passing, and only knew uneasy slumber interspersed by a skin of water lifted to his mouth and the incessant changing of bandages. Sometimes a hand would fall to his forehead, followed by frantic, murmured conversations in Vaskian. Laurent couldn’t pick out any words – his mind was sluggish, stopping and starting, thoughts and memories faded by exhaustion. 

Kashel was often there when he awoke, and someone else – someone whose blurry face was achingly familiar. He spoke in Veretian. “Laurent,” he said. “Your Highness. We thought you were dead.”

 _I am dead,_ Laurent thought blurrily, _I am dying. Aren’t I?_

“His fever is very high,” the Veretian man said. “The only thing to do is wait, and hope that it breaks by morning.”

The air in the tent was still and stale. Laurent missed the wind. 

* 

When Laurent awoke fully, his eyelashes stuck together unpleasantly, his hair was tangled and damp with sweat, and he felt as if he had been trampled by a carriage. Perhaps several carriages, with several horses each. Doubting that the afterlife would feel so awful, Laurent concluded that he was, somehow, alive.

But then he saw the people sitting in his tent and quickly rescinded that conclusion. 

Laurent stared at the three of them, ghosts he had been certain he would never see again, speechless.

“Hello, Prince Laurent,” Paschal said, smiling and inclining his head. “Welcome back to the world of the living.”

Laurent swallowed hard, disbelieving gaze flicking from the old physician to his two loyal guards. Lazar had a new scar peeking out from under the hem of his Akielon tunic, a deep slash across his sternum, and Jord looked rather haggard and thin, but they were sitting there before him, cross-legged on Vaskian furs with bowed heads and smiles on their faces; not lying as rotting corpses miles away in a foreign Forest, felled by his uncle’s hand. His uncle was capable of failure after all. Laurent’s heart leapt. 

“How?” he whispered, feeling small and vulnerable and almost ashamed before them, a weak invalid barely dressed and wrapped in blankets; not the steely ice prince they had known before. But then, Laurent was much changed since they had last seen him. 

This change did not seem to dissuade them from staying at his side, however. Paschal rose from the furs as Laurent tried to sit up. “Careful, Your Highness. I believed you dead until a few days ago, so I’m afraid I must insist you rest and allow yourself to heal.”

Laurent eased himself back down, raising an eyebrow. “Was that an order, Paschal?”

“It was a suggestion,” Paschal countered, “which I shall enforce if necessary.”

Laurent could not help it; he smiled, wide and relieved. “You are as dedicated as always,” he said. “All of you. I…I believed you to be dead, too. Are any of the others…?”

The trio exchanged grim looks. “No, Your Highness,” Jord murmured. “It was…the others were slaughtered. We were nearly among them – if not for the physician, who had the wisdom to hide during the fighting and found us afterwards, we would not be here.”

Paschal sighed. “I tried to save as many as I could, but most were already dead.”

“Gutted like pigs,” Lazar muttered, shaking his head. “Your uncle’s a piece of shit, Your Highness.”

“Quite,” Laurent said, with feeling. “But he is a piece of shit who is dangerously close to the future heir of Akielos.”

Jord frowned deeply. “So he really did it – he’s really using Aimeric to impersonate you and wheedle his way to a foreign throne? What does he hope to gain? What is his goal?”

“War,” Laurent said, and a horrified hush overtook the tent. “His goal is war between Vere and Akielos.”

“It is as I feared,” Paschal murmured, troubled. 

“Vere will be crushed,” Lazar said, shaking his head. “Akielos’s army is both larger and better-trained than ours. If they invade us, we won’t stand a chance.”

“Which is why my uncle will ensure that they invade us,” Laurent finished. “Think about it – if my father’s reign is ended and Auguste is…disposed of, my uncle will not only have no survivors to tell of his impersonation scheme; he will also likely be offered Vere’s throne. King Theomedes will want to thank the Veretian who betrayed his own country’s secrets and told the Exalted of Vere’s own plans of invasion.”

“There are no such plans!” Jord exclaimed. “An invasion on our part would be suicidal.”

“But Akielos does not know that,” Laurent said. “So Akielos will rise up, furious that their northern neighbor dares to challenge a peace treaty that is hardly six months old, and they will break it before we can. And from Vere’s ashes, my uncle will reap the rewards.”

“A piece of _shit_ ,” Lazar repeated vehemently, spitting on the ground. 

“But enough of my uncle,” Laurent said, exhausted again by this talk of war and scheming. “You still have not told me the entire story of your miraculous survival.”

“Hardly miraculous,” Paschal chuckled. “We wandered the Forest for some time, until we came upon a village full of the poorest people I have ever seen. But they were kind and generous, and took us in, and gave us what they could. The town herbalist helped me to care for Lazar, as he was grievously injured, which kept us marooned there for some time.”

“I searched the Forest for you in the meantime, Your Highness,” Jord added. “I had sent my horse after you when you started running, and had hope it might have reached you before Govart.”

“It did,” Laurent said. “Your horse saved my life. You saved my life, Jord.”

Jord turned a bit pink and cleared his throat. “Oh. Well. That’s…I am glad, Prince Laurent.”

Lazar chimed in. “Since the snows had set in by the time I was up and walking again, we didn’t have much of a choice but to stay here in sunny Akielos. We’ve been playing at peasants for the last few months, which is harder than it looks. We would have been off to Vere by now, if some bigmouthed sheepherder hadn’t gone on and on about a bleeding boy with golden hair and ghostly skin wandering through the woods.”

“Not a common occurrence in the Forest, I take it,” Laurent said dryly.

“Oh, no,” Paschal chuckled. “The poor man thought you were a fallen sun god of some sort, and pleaded that we give homage to you, or risk being smited. I believe he was quite drunk.”

Laurent thought back to the stormy night, to the wind swirling around him and striking Govart down as if crushing an ant. Smiting was a fairly apt description, but Paschal had just seen his prince resurrected from the dead, and Laurent feared that revealing he could also speak to the wind now might stop the physician’s old heart.

“We searched for you, and found a trail of blood,” Jord said. “This led us to a gorge, which was filled to the brim with terrifying armed women who wanted to kill us.”

“Luckily, I know a fair bit of Vaskian.” Lazar grinned, and Laurent decided he did not want to know how Lazar had acquired the language. “I managed to convince their leader we were telling the truth, and that we had a physician. The swords and arrows went away quick after that.”

“These women seem…very protective of you, Your Highness,” Jord said hesitantly. “And yet they expressed surprise when we told them who you are.”

“The leader wasn’t surprised,” Lazar retorted. “She knew, I’d bet you anything. Sly, that one. Called you a faunus, which sounds important.”

“One who speaks to beasts,” Laurent explained. Three pairs of eyebrows raised. “Yes, it’s true. I was only able to find my way to their camp after the coup because an owl told me the way.”

Paschal looked thoughtful. “Was this…talent of yours what enabled you to avoid your uncle for so long, Prince Laurent?”

“It certainly helped,” Laurent replied. “I found work among the palace laborers, as a goose boy.” He bit his lip. “Truly, if not for the geese, Govart would have done worse than graze me. They are as protective of me as the Vaskians.”

Jord blinked, looking scandalized. “A goose boy? But, Your Highness –”

“I did not exactly have many choices presented to me, Jord,” Laurent said, rolling his eyes. “So yes, I have been living with the common folk. Common _Akielon_ folk, no less.”

“But they do not know of your identity?”

“A few do,” Laurent hedged, thinking not only of Vannes and Nicaise, but of Lady Jokaste, tapping her eyebrows and reclining against a pillar with a glint in her eyes. “I disguised myself as one of them. I took on the name Lykos, and an Akielon accent, and covered my hair with –” Laurent paused, and glanced around, panicked. 

“Your Highness?” Paschal questioned. 

“My…my clothes from my arrival, where are they?”

Paschal eyed him quizzically. “Your Highness, they were stained and ruined –”

“What happened to them?” Laurent demanded.

“They were burned, I suppose,” Paschal said, and Laurent’s chest tightened. It was only a silk scarf, but its loss was almost as painful as the loss of the one who had gifted it to him. Paschal furrowed his brow. “Your Highness…are you alright? You look pale. Maybe you ought to rest.”

“Yes,” Laurent said. “Yes, I think so.”

“Then rest,” Paschal said. “We will leave you in peace, Your Highness, and continue our conversation later.”

“Yes,” Laurent mumbled, turning away, back aching. “Thank you.”

When he drifted off, it was to a flickering gallery of handsome, smiling faces under a far-off beech tree, laughter low and musical, hands tender where they touched him. 

*

Laurent awoke several hours later, this time feeling more rested and less like he’d been run over by a herd of horses. The Veretians had gone, but he was still not alone in the tent. He’d been awakened by a hand, nudging lightly at his shoulder, and had a strange sense of déjà vu as he gazed up at Kashel.

“You are always seeing me at my worst,” he said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. 

“Your fault, not mine,” Kashel replied, and paused. “Your Highness.” The title was teasing, but her tone carried an underlying somberness. A line appeared between her brows.

Laurent disliked this new pattern of people discovering he was royalty, and being uncomfortable with that fact. Kashel had always teased him in the past, and he knew she was remembering all those times now, and seeing them in a different light – as a commoner insulting a foreign prince. When truly, all they were was friends, and all she had ever done was help him.

“You don’t need to call me that,” Laurent said quietly, sitting up now that Paschal was gone, and ignoring the slight twinge of his back. “I’m the same as I was before.”

Kashel sighed, and shifted back on her heels. “Not the same,” she murmured. “Last we met; you didn’t have a hole in your back.”

Laurent blinked. “Are you…are you _upset_ with me?”

Kashel’s shoulders slumped. “I am upset you did not tell us. I understand why you did not – why you felt you could not – tell us the truth, but…” She shook her head. “You could have been killed, Lyk – Laurent. Halvik is an agent of the Empress, and our countries have long been close allies. We could have helped you.”

“I am…unaccustomed to receiving help from strangers,” Laurent admitted quietly. “You had no reason to believe me, if I were to start making such claims –”

“No reason?” Kashel echoed. “What, do you think we have many blonde Veretian boys with soft hands and fine clothes turn up at our doorstep? Most suspected you were of high birth, or at least the son of a wealthy merchant. But I never guessed you were the Prince sent to wed Damianos. It seems rather obvious, when I look back on it now.”

“I have not been a prince for some time,” Laurent said. 

“No,” Kashel argued, “you were always a prince. Your Veretian subjects explained the situation to us. It is wrong, what has been done – to you; to Vere and Akielos. Our clan will ally with you in this, Laurent of Vere. War is a ravenous beast, and it is likely to entangle and consume Vask as well, if your uncle has his way.”

Laurent’s eyes widened. “Ally with me? In…in what?”

“In your endeavor to reclaim your throne,” Kashel said. “We are fifty-strong, with thirty horses and many weapons –”

“No,” Laurent interrupted. “No, I will not sanction an attack on Akielos. No innocents should be caught in this battle – it is between me and my uncle.”

“You will still require protection, at the least intimidation, and I have been told by your Jord that we are very intimidating.” Kashel tilted her head. “Are you going to cry? Do not cry.” She patted his cheek clumsily.

Laurent sniffed and glared at her. “I am not – ugh. Did you just wake me up to tell me of your clan’s foolish decision to aid me, or was there something else?”

“Oh!” Kashel nodded, and reached into her pocket, and Laurent stared at the length of blue silk she withdrew from it. “Yes, I wanted to give you this. It fell out of your chiton before we burned it, and looked to be of some value, so –”

Laurent took the scarf with unsteady fingers, and tried not to clutch it to his chest so obviously. “Yes,” he whispered. “It is. Valuable. To me.”

Kashel’s lips quirked. “Who is he?” she asked.

Laurent’s face heated, and he narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think –”

“It is a token, obviously,” Kashel said with a shrug. “Or, in Vere, you might call it a favour? Either way it is a symbol of devotion and –”

“It is a _scarf_ , not a marriage vow,” Laurent snapped. His back was beginning to hurt again. He sighed, and softened his tone. “But…thank you, for saving it from the fire.”

Kashel inclined her head, brow furrowing again. “You are paler than usual. I will leave you to sleep.” She gave him a small smile. “You may be right – this may be between you and your uncle. But you are not alone anymore, Laurent of Vere.” 

Laurent watched her as she rose and left the tent, and in her absence finally allowed himself to lift the blue silk to his face, and breathe it in, and imagine he could still smell Damen there. 

*

Though Laurent was able to stand and walk two days later, Paschal and the Vaskians kept him confined to the tent during the day, only allowing him to come out at night for the bonfire, to eat with the clan and listen to various songs and stories. It was then that Laurent shared his story with them all – the entire story, from the days spent speaking with birds in the garden to the sting of Govart’s dagger in his back and the wind’s retribution. 

He did not realize how long the story was until it was over, and his throat was hoarse, and the horizon had lightened with the first hints of dawn. The clanswomen looked at him with something akin to respect, and then Halvik said, “Faunus, you spoke of hearing the wind, and commanding it. I do not know of this power. Can you hear it now? Can you command it now?”

“His Highness is still recovering –” Paschal protested, but Laurent held up a hand.

“Yes,” he said. “I can hear it.” He reached out with his mind, a soft invitation, and a light breeze curled around him, ruffling his hair, stroking under his tunic and whispering over the wound with something like concern. The clanswomen murmured and shifted, fascinated. Kashel’s eyes widened hugely. But he knew Halvik would not be impressed with just that. So he looked at her from across the fire, and said to the wind, _Show her you are here, as you show me. Make her believe._

The wind, amused with this proposition, whirled obediently away from Laurent, and towards the fire. The clan gasped in unison as it ripped through the flames, sending them spiraling upwards in tendrils of gold and scarlet, whirling in a ball of flame for a few seconds before the wind snuffed them out, hissing through the smoldering logs and sending sparks flying from the embers. Then, still warm from the flames, the wind rushed to Halvik, and Laurent had the satisfaction of seeing her stony expression shift to shock. It touched her as it had touched Laurent, disturbing the smooth black waves of her hair like a stormy sea, billowing under the fur cloak she wore until she appeared to have wings, huge and dark behind her. Sparks flickered through the air. 

Then, as quickly as the wind had come, it retreated, a sound like laughter reaching Laurent’s ears as Halvik blinked, her regal face made childlike with surprise. Then her expression settled, and her lips twitched in a slight smile. “I will not make the mistake of doubting you again, faunus. We thank you for sharing your story with us, and stand beside you.”

But even after that, Laurent was not allowed to travel back to the city. Paschal did not want him traveling anywhere until the stitches could be removed, which meant he would have to wait another week at least. He was as restless as the wind, and the days felt too long – winter was fading fast, and the trees were budding, and the sun’s warmth touched the land again, and everywhere things were changing. Laurent amused himself by strolling through the Forest surrounding the camp, finding chatty birds and trying to speak to them. 

The ravens and the crows were the most interesting to talk to because they were the cleverest, along with the magpies, who chirped incessantly about what little treasures they had found. It was exhausting to converse with the finches and sparrows, who changed their train of thought every five seconds, and the doves and pigeons were dull and sleepy and had little to say that did not do with food or nests. Once Laurent found an owl who regarded him with large yellow eyes and said nothing at all. 

The wind seemed flightier than usual, and after the display at the bonfire, it hardly listened to him, ignoring his suggestions for it to do this or that. This was a little worrying, but when Laurent tried to ask it what was wrong, it did not understand, and whisked away through the trees without another word.

But the week did, eventually, pass, and the stitches did come out, and when Laurent swung himself up onto Kashel’s horse behind her, his back twinged but did not tear, and so they set off towards the city.

Paschal, Jord, and Lazar flanked them on horses of their own, generously provided by the Vaskians. They were scouting out the city first, to test the waters. Kashel would ride back to the camp alone when they had determined the Vaskians could join them, and then they would advance to the palace and demand an audience with the King. It was not much of a plan, but Laurent knew Akielons appreciated shows of power as much as Vaskians, and doubted they would refuse him entrance with such an impressive force behind him. 

But when they arrived that afternoon at the city limits, the huge white stone walls rising up before them, Laurent realized at once that something was different. The sentries and their javelins, which had once lined the main thoroughfare through the city gates, had been reduced to a skeleton crew. Only four men remained, and though they eyed the horses and Kashel with some bewilderment, they let them pass. The city was much the same – quiet, eerily so, with most people indoors and no one working on the streets. 

And all around, the city was bedecked in celebration of the impending wedding, trees and rooftops strung with colorful strings of lanterns and banners, long ribbons in red and blue crossing over their heads as their horses walked down the empty, cobbled avenue. Though Laurent had hidden his hair under the silk scarf once more, he felt exposed and vulnerable, the only living creature in a ghost town. The air was tense and expectant, and every little movement made Laurent’s head jerk towards it, unsettled and uneasy. 

By the time they reached the familiar line of houses that marked the workers’ settlement, Laurent was on-edge and half-certain that Govart would leap out from behind a pillar at any moment. But this street was as silent and empty as the others, and when they pulled their horses up in front of the worker’s hall, Laurent realized why.

Jord dismounted first, and made his way to the door, opening it and pausing on the threshold. “Your Highness,” he said slowly, “there is a little boy pointing a fork at me, and several dozen other children who seem equally eager to use their cutlery as weapons.”

“I’m not a little boy!” Nicaise shrieked from within the hall. “Get back, Veretian traitor! We know what you did to the real prince, and we’ll do the same to you!”

Laurent, having dismounted with Kashel and the others, unwound his scarf and stepped into the hall beside Jord. Nicaise dropped his fork, narrowed eyes flying wide with shock. Behind him, all the other workers stared. Laurent saw Vannes, close behind Nicaise, and she covered her mouth with her hands.

“Please do not stab my guard, Nicaise,” Laurent said. “Though, I do appreciate your willingness to kill people for me.”

Nicaise was shaking, and took a step back, chin trembling as if he were about to cry. 

“Laurent,” Vannes whispered. “I told them. I thought – we thought they’d killed you. Your geese woke the whole settlement, and we followed your tracks all the way to the pasture and – there was blood. So much blood.”

“I was stabbed in the back,” Laurent replied. “Again. This time, quite literally.” No one laughed. “But I am alright; I got away, and found I was not the only one who had cheated death.” He nodded to Jord and Lazar, then to Paschal and Kashel. “The Vaskians and my old physician nursed me back to health, and I could not return until today.”

“It’s true, then?” Talik said from beside her friend, her brow lowered. “You are the Veretian Prince? The yellow boy?”

“Yes,” Laurent said. “I’m sorry I lied to you all.”

“You’re not the liar,” Pallas said, stepping forward boldly. “Your uncle is.”

Isander nodded, also coming forward. “You were only lying because you had to. We understand.”

“We want to help you,” Erasmus piped up, folding his arms in determination. “However we can. Vannes said you didn’t want to risk us getting hurt, but everyone’s going to get hurt if we don’t do something.”

“The army’s marched,” Talik said grimly. “They left three days ago. There was a celebration. War will reach Vere within the month.”

Laurent had feared as much. “When will the wedding be?” he asked warily.

“Two days,” Kallias said. “They’ve all gone to the summer palace, a day’s walk to the coast. We must hurry if we want to reach the royals before the vows are said and done.”

“We?” Laurent repeated. 

“We’re coming with you,” little Genevot declared. “Damianos-Exalted can’t marry the fake prince. He’s got to marry our goose boy!”

“I won’t put you in danger –” Laurent started.

Vannes interrupted him, which made Jord’s brows raise to his hairline. He’d get used to it, eventually. “You’re not putting us anywhere,” she said. “We’re your friends, and we’re with you, Prince Laurent of Vere. Maybe it’s not the imperial army you’re used to, but we’ll defend you, as best we can.” She went to Laurent, and the entire room seemed to hold its breath as she held out her hand to him. “I’m not letting you do this alone,” she added fiercely.

Laurent knew that she meant it – even if he refused, she and the others would somehow find their way to him, riding on the backs of cows and sheep and waving their pitchforks and shovels wildly. So he took her hand, and said, “I accept, and thank you.” The room let out its breath in a relieved sigh. He squeezed her hand and let go, looking at them all and shaking his head. “What I don’t understand is how you all believe me.”

“Because we know you,” Vannes said, smiling, emotion shining bright in her eyes. The rest of the room nodded, and smiled, and the tension eased, and conversation began to resume, excited talk of the adventures they would have and the stories that would be told about them. Laurent still received awed, frightened, and delighted looks as Vannes led him and his party to a mostly-empty table, but when he sat down, Adrastus served them their bowls of soup personally, eying Laurent critically. 

“If you really are the yellow boy, you’d better reach Damianos-Exalted before the traitor does. The little murderer will slit our Prince’s throat in their marriage bed,” Adrastus muttered. “Best hurry.”

There was a little more soup in Laurent’s bowl than usual. He ate it gratefully, and smiled to himself as some of the braver workers approached Kashel, Vannes among them, asking about life in her clan and what Vask was like. Kashel answered their questions, and Laurent noticed that Vannes sat rather close to her, and Kashel did not stop her, but rather nudged her playfully under the table. Hm. Interesting.

Then he spotted Nicaise across the room, sitting with Erasmus and Kallias but mostly ignoring them, looking down at the table and frowning. Laurent managed to slip away while the workers were distracted with Kashel’s tale of how Halvik managed to take down a bear, and sat down across from him.

Nicaise glanced up, startled.

Laurent, without saying anything, plucked a single golden hair from his head and held it out to Nicaise. Nicaise took it, frown deepening. “I told the Veretian guards about you,” he said after a beat, voice trembling like his chin. “I…I wanted them to find you. But I didn’t know they would try to kill you. I. I didn’t want them to kill you.”

“I know,” Laurent murmured. “I’m sorry I made you look like a fool in front of everyone. You were right. I’m not one of you. But I was never against you.”

Nicaise looked down at the long, pale strand of hair and smiled a little. “I really wanted to yank one of these from your stupid head,” he admitted. “But then you got all witchy, and now you’re a prince, so I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t.”

Laurent shrugged and smiled back. “You’re on my side now, aren’t you?”

Nicaise flicked the strand of hair into the air, and the two of them watched it drift through the fading sunlight to rest on the floorboards, glinting dully. “Yes,” Nicaise agreed, and Laurent felt like he’d already won his first victory.

*

But the real battle had not yet begun, and Laurent was filled with apprehension after supper, as he made his way through the streets to the palace with Kashel, Jord, Lazar, Vannes, and about a dozen of the other workers. They must have made quite a sight, marching down the dim street, through the gate, and into the outer palace courtyards. They required more horses to make the journey to the summer palace in time, and there was only one place from which to get them. Everything was vacant, and it was only when they reached the inner courtyards leading up to the stables that they encountered guards – and opposition.

Having javelins pointed in one’s face was a very effective deterrent. There were five of them, and though the guards were outnumbered, they were very tall and broad and unfriendly-looking. A soft breeze whisked past Laurent’s ear but he disregarded it – the storm had given him enough power to attack Govart, but there was not enough wind here, and more guards would replace the ones that fell. Laurent would be locked up, in the cells deep beneath the palace, listening to the wind bring him news of death in Vere. And that was not an option.

“We’ve been summoned to the stables,” Laurent said, putting on his prettiest smile and batting his eyelashes. 

The guards glanced at each other. “We’ve received no notice of such summons,” the tallest one said, narrowing his eyes at Laurent’s hair. “Do you have proof?”

Then one of the guards saw the sword at Jord’s hip. Damn it all, this was not well-planned. “Why are you armed?” The javelins bristled. “State your business, now!”

“There is no need to shout,” came a soft, lilting voice from the palace proper, and Laurent paused, turning to see Lady Jokaste, again reclining against a pillar, but this time trailed by several ladies in waiting and without her pregnant belly. Her skin had lost its glow and she slumped rather than leaned against the marble, exhaustion clear in the dark circles under her eyes and her hollowed cheekbones. Laurent had a sneaking suspicion the pregnancy had not gone well. 

All the guards stood to attention at once. “My Lady,” the tallest said, “these intruders are armed, it isn’t safe for you –”

“Intruders?” Jokaste repeated, as if the word was distasteful. “I think not. This palace has been infested with intruders for several months, and nothing was ever done to apprehend _them_.”

The poor guards were bewildered. “But – but my Lady, they are armed, they requested access to the stables and –”

She gave them a cool look. The guards stopped arguing. Jokaste smiled pleasantly at Laurent. “Come,” she said, and it was not a suggestion. “I believe you and I need to talk. In private.”

Jord made a low, distrusting sound. “Your Highness –” he said under his breath.

Laurent shook his head imperceptibly. “I want to hear what she has to say,” he murmured back, and went to her. “Let us talk,” he said.

She inclined her head. “Guards, do refrain from any apprehending while I am gone.” And with that she glided through the archway and back into the palace, and Laurent followed her. He was surrounded by the ladies in waiting, and felt a bit uncomfortable with them so close, crowded by their flowing dresses and sweet perfume. 

Among them, Jokaste stood out as Laurent did – her skin was not as pale as his, but it appeared white as snow beside theirs, and her hair was a pile of burnished gold curls pinned artfully atop her head. She led him to what appeared to be a small enclosed patio, shielded from searching eyes by an array of palms and ferns, and gestured for him to take a seat at the stone table there. He did, and was surprised when she sent her ladies in waiting out, leaving them truly alone together. Laurent looked into her cunning blue eyes, a shade darker than his own, and wondered if she could truly be an ally.

She tilted her head at him. “You’re not hiding your golden hair anymore, I see. A very good choice.”

“And you’re not pregnant anymore,” Laurent replied, carefully.

“Pregnancies do not last forever,” Jokaste said airily, waving a hand. “Thankfully. He was born three days ago, earlier than expected. I was deemed unwell and thus unfit to join in on the merry wedding festivities. Good riddance.”

“You disapprove of the wedding?”

She laughed lightly. “I disapprove of any occasion involving foreign traitors who endanger Akielos and our Crown Prince.”

“The Crown Prince?” Laurent asked, surprised. “Did you not betray him for his half-brother?”

Jokaste sniffed. “It sounds so cruel, when you say it like that. But yes, I suppose I did. Nonetheless, that does not mean any affections I had for him have ceased to be. He is a good man, but also a very, very blind one. He will not see the danger until it is too late.” 

“You know who I am,” Laurent said.

“Unlike Damianos, I am not blind, Prince Laurent,” Jokaste said, rolling her eyes. “Yes, I know. I have known, or rather I have suspected, but did not know the full extent of the treachery until Akielon forces began the march on Vere. And I had no evidence – that uncle of yours is irritatingly good at covering his tracks. So I waited for you. And here you are.”

“You…are willing to help me?”

“That depends,” Jokaste replied archly. “Do you require a fully-armed battalion? I would not give you that. But…horses for your company, to ride to the summer palace? Now that is more within my power.”

“We will need disguises,” Laurent hedged. “They won’t let us into the palace without a good reason.”

“Hm.” Jokaste scrutinized him. “Do you look very much like Crown Prince Auguste?”

Laurent blinked. “Oh,” he said, and then, considering, “We have similar features, though Auguste is older, and much taller. But I do appear older than Aimeric.” At her blank look he added, “The false prince.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “you do. Much less of a brat than he is, too.” Jokaste stood, and swayed slightly before regaining her strength, looking determined as she crossed the room, and looked back at him expectantly. “Well, come along, then.”

“May I ask where we are going?” Laurent asked as she swept past her fretting ladies in waiting and up a flight of stairs, which he was fairly certain she was not supposed to be climbing. But Jokaste was nothing if not stubborn, and she took the stairs two at a time, only pausing once to rest. By the time they reached the top, she had a grayish pallor to her skin, but her eyes were as bright as ever. 

“If anyone is to believe that you are the Crown Prince Auguste visiting your dear little brother for his wedding, you must look the part. And there is only one place here where we will find princely Veretian clothes.” Jokaste continued down the hall, and Laurent could not help but marvel at the arched ceiling, warmly glowing wall sconces, and large windows, white curtains billowing in the sea air and giving the palace an ethereal feeling. He and Jokaste surely contributed to that, both in their white chitons, hers gilded and his plain, strands of long blonde hair lifted gently by the breeze as they strode through the marble columns together. 

The few guards they passed did not ask questions, as they might have done in Vere. They simply greeted Jokaste with the honorific of a princess, and watched Laurent curiously. Jokaste paid them no mind. She rounded a corner, and then another, and another, and around the fourth corner there was a set of double-doors made of dark, heavy walnut, engraved with climbing vines heavy with grapes and clusters of half-opened blossoms. 

Jokaste ran her fingertips over the carvings. “They represent fertility,” she said. “Ironic, don’t you think?”

“Mm,” Laurent agreed, giving her a sideways glance. “You almost sound envious.”

“Yes,” Jokaste said, bluntly. “These apartments should have been mine.” She pushed the door open. “Then again, they should have been yours, too.” Her lips twisted in what could have been a smile. “We have both been cheated.”

 _Yes, we have,_ Laurent thought as he took in the sight of the lavish rooms before him. They were large and airy, like the rest of the palace, but with a certain Veretian touch that stood out starkly amidst the more simplistic Akielon décor. There were various sofas and benches lined with plush satin pillows along the walls and wide windows, and the floor was cool marble but most of it was covered in rugs so deep that their footsteps left impressions in the fabric. On the far wall hung a tapestry depicting some strange, beautiful creature that appeared to be half horse, half fish, surrounded by brightly colored patterns that vaguely resembled sea foam and waves. Near the door, there was a long table with several long silver candlesticks framed by painted clay vases, filled with wilting flowers. 

The bedroom proper was likely in the next room, for safety and privacy, and it was to there that Laurent found himself drawn, unable to stop staring at the Prince Consort’s apartments and knowing they should have been his home these past months. Next to this splendor, his goose boy quarters were nothing but an inhospitable shack. But that had been his home. That was the home of all the workers. 

Jokaste had all but collapsed onto one of the sofas, sprawled out on the cushions carelessly as Laurent explored, closing her eyes to rest in what appeared to be a gesture of great trust, letting her guard down in front of an almost-stranger. Laurent doubted that she trusted him – she just did not fear him. He was not sure he could say the same about her.

The next room was, in fact, the bedroom, and Laurent felt as if he were truly trespassing as he stepped into the slightly smaller, more intimate space. The bed was lower to the ground than Veretian beds, with white sheets and a headboard as finely carved as the doors, and it was draped in a filmy pale blue canopy that hung from the vaulted ceiling. The windows here were smaller, and curtained, but led out to a balcony that presumably overlooked the entire city. 

The Veretian influence was more obvious here – the wardrobe in the corner looked too unnecessarily intricate to be Akielon, and the dressing table was littered with items that Laurent recognized as his own – combs and oils and brooches and books and a little glass figurine of a horse that Laurent very much wanted to smash. 

But he was not here to deface his own property. Instead, he crossed to the wardrobe, opening it and rifling through, tamping down the surge of indignation as he recognized more and more of his own things, which had been worn by Aimeric all these months. Pettily, Laurent thought to burn them, so that if he failed and did not regain his title and clothes, he would still have gotten a little revenge. Yes, if he failed he would likely be imprisoned or killed, but at least Aimeric would have nothing to wear. 

Laurent resisted the urge and grabbed a silk undershirt and his favorite jacket, a dark blue embossed in swirling brocade with silver laces, and a pair of black pants and riding boots that felt strangely confining after so long wearing chitons and worn shoes. He took the gold-plated brush – his brush – from the dressing table and began to work out the snarls in his hair properly, feeling vain as he did it but relishing the feeling of running his fingers through the locks smoothly afterwards. He started to braid it, then thought better of it and let it fall freely over his shoulders, loose, pale hair incongruous to the tight, dark severity of his attire.

He studied himself in the floor-length mirror and felt as if he was looking at a stranger, or perhaps a memory. Laurent felt detached from the man he saw before him – staring back coolly from the glass in Veretian attire, freckled skin covered, telltale hair on display. 

He was almost afraid to return to the workers like this – here was proof that he was not one of them; that he had never been one of them – he was a blue-blooded prince in full panoply, not a goose boy. Would they even recognize him like this? He hardly recognized himself.

Then his gaze fell to the blue silk scarf, peeking out of the pocket of his jacket. He hesitated, then picked it up, wrapping it about his neck and tying it like a cravat, undoing the first few laces to tuck it under the collar of the jacket. It made him feel more like himself. 

“I am Prince Laurent of Vere,” he said to his reflection. “This is my birthright.”

His reflection stared back, unimpressed. 

The sound of metal on metal jolted Laurent out of his thoughts, and he turned towards the door, eyes widening when there was a _crash_ from the next room. _Jokaste._ He snatched up his old boots, which he had retrieved from his room before they left for the palace – within them was tucked the dagger Auguste had given him, the silver flashing as Laurent withdrew it from its sheathe and, holding it tightly, pushed the door open.

The room was chaos, with tables upended and pillows scattered every which way. But Jokaste was not crumpled on the floor, felled by the sharp Veretian sword Guymar was wielding. She was standing in a decent defensive stance, hair wild and teeth gritted, brandishing one of the long silver candlesticks in front of her, and judging by the bruise blooming on Guymar’s cheekbone she had already managed to land a blow. 

Guymar’s attention on her wavered and then ceased altogether as he saw Laurent in the doorway, and his mouth twisted into an unpleasant grin. “You just keep refusing to die, don’t you? Should’ve stayed down the first time. Your Akielon laborer friends aren’t here to help you now, are they?”

“I don’t need their help to kill you,” Laurent retorted, frantically trying to recall all the tactics Auguste and Eliska had taught him, body reverting to instinct as Guymar advanced and swung at him. Laurent ducked and leapt away, back twinging at the sudden movement. This was different from swordplay – he could hardly parry a sword with a dagger. 

Or could he?

The next time Guymar lunged, Laurent struck back, catching the flat of the broadsword on the slender blade of his dagger, the sound ringing out as Laurent twisted his wrist, sending Guymar stumbling as his sword was twisted with it. Jokaste saw the opportunity and took it, darting forward and slamming the candlestick down on Guymar’s head with a sick _crack_. He swayed and stumbled again, dazed, grip loosening on the sword hilt, and Laurent disarmed him easily. His sword clattered to the ground and Laurent pressed the edge of the dagger to his throat. 

“Was the gold my uncle gave you worth dying for?” Laurent asked, and without waiting for an answer, he sliced Guymar’s neck open, stepping back to avoid the uneven spray of blood as the mercenary fell to the ground with a ragged gasp, staining the marble scarlet. Laurent held the dripping dagger unsteadily, unable to look away from Guymar dying, drowning in his own blood. He had always thought killing a man would be quick, but this was slow and ugly, and yet Laurent could feel no remorse for it.

Jokaste dropped her candlestick and sat down heavily on the nearest sofa. “You should take his sword,” she said, breathing hard but managing to keep composed. “He has little use for it now.”

Laurent did, taking the belt and scabbard along with it and putting it on, the sword heavy at his left hip, yet it felt as if it belonged. He felt slightly less foolish, less like a goose boy playing at princehood. He was playing at nothing. He had just slit a man’s throat. The battle had begun.

“You have what you need?” Jokaste asked, standing again and sidestepping Guymar’s body with mild disgust. “I would prefer to leave this place as soon as possible, in case any others stayed behind in the hopes of ambushing you.”

“Yes,” Laurent said. “Although I think he was the only one. My uncle is arrogant. He would never even dream his fragile nephew could take on one of his sellswords and win.” Laurent nudged Guymar’s body with a boot disdainfully as he passed. 

“I’m so glad arrogance doesn’t run in the family,” Jokaste remarked dryly, leading him out through the doors and back into the hall. 

Laurent rolled his eyes. “I think I am allowed some arrogance after what he has subjected me to.” Jokaste paused and looked at him curiously, but Laurent kept walking, regretting his phrasing. He had assumed they would be going back downstairs to the courtyard to rejoin the others, but Jokaste continued on in the opposite direction. “Where are we going now?”

“How many are in your company?” Jokaste asked over her shoulder. “You will need horses, and I intend to write you a passport to the stables, but I will need numbers.”

Laurent could only give her an estimate. “About fifty,” he said. 

“Fifty? Not just the animal workers on your side, anymore?”

“A Vaskian clan,” Laurent replied shortly. 

She seemed delighted by this. “I would give anything to see the looks on their faces when you arrive with a squadron of servants and barbarians behind you. However did you convince the Vaskians to help you?”

“My natural charisma, obviously,” Laurent deadpanned. “I’m irresistible.”

Jokaste chuckled, glancing back again, and then her lips parted, brows drawing together. “Where did you find that scarf?” she asked sharply. 

Laurent blinked. Was it possible that she knew Damen? Damen had said that Lady Jokaste was an acquaintance of his. “It…was given to me as a gift. By a friend.”

“A friend,” she echoed.

“A palace guard,” Laurent relented. “It is possible you know of him, he guarded the Crown Prince.”

“Did he, now,” Jokaste said, amusement coloring her tone. “I cannot say I spoke frequently with Damianos’s guards, but I do seem to recall seeing that scarf before. How odd.” She stopped before another door, this one smaller and carved with stars and moons, and flanked by two guards who inclined their heads to her. “I would appreciate if you kept your voice down. The baby is sleeping.”

Before Laurent could question that, she opened the doors and he found himself in what were unmistakably her apartments. They were smaller than the Prince Consort’s, but still spacious and beautiful, with an antechamber preceding a large bedroom with what seemed to be a sitting room attached to it. Laurent most definitely felt like a trespasser here, especially when he saw the crib at the foot of the canopied bed, and the small form squirming within it. 

There were two nurses there, and they looked startled by Laurent’s presence. Jokaste greeted them casually. Laurent was silent, looking at the crib with wide eyes. Jokaste noticed, and raised an eyebrow. “Do you wish to stand there gaping like a fish, or do you wish to see him?”

Laurent slowly went to the crib, eying the baby and the nurses nervously. “He does not have a nursery?”

Jokaste sniffed. “In times such as these, I prefer to keep him close. He will have a nursery when mercenaries do not lurk in every corner, and only then.”

The nurses exchanged frightened looks. “Mercenaries, my Lady?”

“Oh, just the one,” Jokaste said. “And Prince Laurent here took care of him quite nicely. But in the case that you do find an unwelcome man with a sword here, I would suggest arming yourselves with candlesticks, or the dagger under my pillow.”

The nurses did not look any less frightened, but nodded, and backed off and went to the next room as Laurent peered at the baby. Contrary to its mother’s warning, it was not asleep, but rather blinked up at him with large brown eyes while trying to fit one of its hands into its small, toothless mouth. It was tiny and delicate-looking, with a brown fuzz of hair on its disproportionately large head. Its skin was not as pale as Jokaste’s, but not as dark as its father’s, either. 

He looked up at Jokaste. “Will he be a bastard prince like his father?”

She glanced at him, expression unreadable. “He is a bastard prince,” she agreed, “but his father is no bastard.”

Her words took a moment to sink in. He narrowed his eyes, first at her, then the baby, then back to her. “You did not betray Damianos for Kastor.”

“No,” she said. “I was involved with Kastor first, then Damianos, and intended on marrying him until the peace summit with Vere made that impossible. I discovered I was pregnant soon after.” Jokaste shook her head. “I could not tell him the baby was his. It would have destroyed Damianos, to know that not only did he have to marry a man he did not love; he had also fathered a son with the woman he could not be with.”

“So you thought it would be less painful to make him believe you had traded him for Kastor and he had fathered the child?” Laurent said. “And what about Kastor? Does he know the child is not his?”

“Yes,” Jokaste said, surprising him. “Kastor may not care for his brother’s well-being as much as I do, but he agreed with my choice, and seemed to think marriage with me was compensation enough.” She sighed. “Damianos was hurt, but not as much as he might have been otherwise.”

“I still don’t understand why you couldn’t tell him.”

“Then you do not understand Damianos,” Jokaste countered. “If he knew the truth he might have outright refused to abide by the peace summit agreement, regardless of the consequences. Damianos would cause war, simply because he is fiercely loyal to those he loves. I could not let that happen. Do you understand now?”

“I think so,” Laurent murmured, and the baby reached up to him with a gurgle, perhaps mistaking him for its mother, with their similar coloration and close proximity. “Will you ever reveal his true parentage?”

“If you become Prince Consort, yes,” Jokaste said.

“What makes you think Damianos will dislike me any less than he dislikes Aimeric?”

“Oh, something tells me he will much prefer you,” Jokaste replied equivocally, tapping her fingers on the edge of the crib. 

Laurent frowned slightly. They stood in silence for a short time. Then, “Does he have a name?”

“Leonidas,” she said, smiling. “The lion’s son.”

“Seems rather obvious, don’t you think?”

“Damianos is rather blind, remember?” Jokaste chuckled. She touched her son’s brow, and he made a pleased gurgling sound, tiny fingers closing around her thumb. Her eyes softened, and as Laurent watched them, mother and son, he knew she was telling the truth, about everything. He had no doubt she would die to protect this tiny prince, Leonidas, the secret heir of Akielos. And he did not want to see that happen.

Laurent cleared his throat. “You were going to give me fifty horses?”

Jokaste’s smile sharpened. “Yes,” she said, straightening up. “I am.”

*

Jokaste’s sitting room turned out to be more of a private study, and she had amassed an alarming collection of royal seals and stamps (hidden in a drawer with a false bottom), which she used to make the forged order official. This was clearly not the first time she had done this, and Laurent’s admiration for her increased exponentially with every expert flick of the pen as she perfectly copied the King’s signature.

The stable-master asked no questions when Laurent showed him the order, but it soon became clear that the best horses had departed with the army, and they were now left with the lesser mounts. Many were short, skinny, or old, some betrayed features of donkey heritage. Laurent surveyed the motley group of people with their motley group of horses and wondered how this was going to work.

Then the sound of pounding hooves filled the air, and everyone looked up as the Vaskians arrived with Kashel and Halvik at their head, galloping through the gates and pulling up their mounts right before the stunned stable-master and terrified guards. “Faunus,” Halvik greeted from the back of her massive black warhorse. “We are here.”

“I see that,” Laurent replied, and Kashel nodded at him with a grin. 

“It grows dark. We should wait for dawn, and depart then,” Halvik reasoned. 

“You cannot all camp in the stables for the night!” the stable-master exclaimed.

“Are you going to stop us?” Halvik retorted, and the man wisely did not.

The addition of the Vaskians to the company made it look more impressive, but the fact remained that Laurent still didn’t have a horse. He scanned the crowd, and then he saw the lone horse in a far corral, a tall bay pacing his enclosure. His heart leapt, and he went to the stable-master. “I would like that horse,” he told the man, pointing. 

The man followed his gaze and frowned. “That horse isn’t for riding, sir. He’s still wild, and –”

“I’ve ridden him before,” Laurent interrupted. The stable-master threw up his hands and gave up, sending some stable hands to help Laurent saddle him up. But the stable hands thought it would be good fun to let the yellow-haired boy saddle the bay himself, and snickered amongst each other as Laurent opened the gate, arms filled with tack. Their snickering stopped abruptly when, a few minutes later, Laurent swung himself neatly into the bay’s saddle and rode him out of the corral with ease, feeling very princely indeed as he reached the courtyard and saw his allies – his friends – all around him, ready to ride for the summer palace at his command.

His uncle might have the power of people-speaking, but he bought his men’s loyalty. Laurent had earned theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before anyone asks - yeah, damen's son is named after the spartan dude from 300 
> 
> also, some of you want more damen in this story - no worries, he'll be in 90% of the next two chapters, lol. Also, this story is really less of a Lamen story and more of a Laurent story - I wanted to explore his interactions with characters other than Damen and I've had a lot of fun doing that. If you want a story focused more on Damen, you can read pretty much any other cp fic, haha. and it is tagged as slow burn, so. IT'S NOT LIKE I DIDN'T WARN YOU.
> 
> anyway, enough of my saltiness. i adore your comments and kudos and hope you enjoyed this long af chap!


	12. Two Birds, One Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was so hard to write bc i hate the regent so much that i had to take like a 30 second break after every awful line of dialogue he said 
> 
> anyway ENJOY (& yes i did add another chapter bc ch12 was getting tooooo long so ch13 will be up soon! & there's lots of damen in 13.) thank u for your comments i love u all and the epilogue/ch14 will be sort of the cuddle session you're all asking for. sort of. you'll see

“There it is,” Vannes said, reining her gray mare in alongside Laurent’s bay. “The summer palace.”

“It’s beautiful,” Erasmus said dreamily from close behind her, staring up at the elegant edifice, perched on the very edge of the cliffs, the sound of the ocean clearly audible. “Did you know Queen Egeria herself designed the gardens?”

“Why is it pink?” Nicaise demanded from atop his white pony, wrinkling his nose. The palace was, in fact, a light pink, made brighter by the noon sun. 

“Pink limestone,” Erasmus told him. “Some say it’s built on Artesian foundations.”

Laurent could see why – the palace had an undeniably ancient air to it, and he could see hints of what looked almost like Veretian architecture in the high towers and narrower windows. Everything felt very surreal as they approached the main gate, which was heavily guarded, a dozen javelins at the ready amidst the twisted olive trees which lined the wide path to the wrought-iron portcullis. 

The guards surely saw the fairly large company approaching the palace, and Laurent slowed his horse, apprehension setting in. “There are so many ways this could go wrong,” he whispered.

“Don’t think about them,” Vannes whispered back. “You have truth on your side.”

“Truth,” Laurent scoffed, raising his eyes to the windows which stared down at him like slitted eyes. “Truth means nothing to people like my uncle.”

“But it means something to you,” she said. “And it will mean something to the King, too.”

_I hope you’re right,_ Laurent thought grimly as he dug his heels in again, continuing on towards the gate and the guards. Halvik’s warriors regrouped on his left and right sides, and the clan leader herself joined him at the front, along with Jord and Lazar. “They may object to allowing us all inside,” Halvik said. “My warriors will use force if necessary.”

“No,” Laurent said firmly. “We have been over this. No bloodshed. Intimidation only.”

Halvik scowled. “Akielons listen only to actual force, not the threat of it. This will not work, faunus.”

“We don’t know that,” Kashel and Vannes protested in unison.

“It could very well work,” Jord agreed gruffly. “We are an imposing and convincing entourage…if one does not look close enough to see the servants’ garb and lack of proper weapons. Besides, Prince Laurent can be very eloquent and persuasive.”

“But did you not tell us your uncle is a, what did you call it, people-speaker?” Halvik said. “His persuasion is superior.”

“Halvik, have you ever heard of morale?” Lazar asked. “Because your negative remarks are steadily lowering mine –”

“Enough,” Laurent said, shaking his head. “Let’s just get this over with.”

He stopped the bay just short of the gate, all too aware of the guards’ suspicious stares as the rest of his sizeable company stopped at once behind him. A horse neighed in the silence, and Laurent told himself to breathe. He bade his voice not to shake, and said, “I am Crown Prince Auguste of Vere, first son of Vere and granted emissary of her King. I have arrived to be witness to the wedding of my brother, Prince Laurent, the second son. Escort us to the King immediately.”

The guards’ suspicious stares fell away at once, replaced by outright incredulity. They looked at each other, as if to confer, and one stepped forward, likely the captain of the watch. “We received no word of your arrival,” he said, not with hostility, but with caution. Good. Laurent must have appeared to at least _possibly_ be Auguste, otherwise they would have been turned away at once, with javelins warding them off. But the javelins remained safely vertical. 

Laurent inclined his head. “An unfortunate yet unavoidable circumstance. We have traveled through hard weather for many months in order to arrive on time for this momentous occasion, and my entourage lost both wagons and many guards. I did not want to risk the loss of others by sending a messenger forward. All the more reason to inform the King of our arrival immediately.”

The captain motioned to another guard and sent him running into the estate. Laurent and his company waited with baited breath. The bay shifted under him, restless, perhaps sensing Laurent’s anxiety. He wished he could turn in the saddle and see his friends, and gain confidence from their belief in him, but all he could do was gaze at the gate and wait to see if it would be opened.

The guard returned, and spoke in hushed tones to the captain, who nodded. Laurent watched with narrowed eyes. The captain stepped towards him. “The King will grant you an audience,” he said, and Laurent contained a sigh of relief. He prepared to ride forward, but instead two guards went to him, one holding a stirrup and the other offering him a hand. Laurent did not want to dismount, but he had little choice. Disconcerted, he did so, ignoring the offered hand. 

“Your Highness,” Jord said uneasily from several paces back. Too far. They were too far away.

One of the guards took ahold of Laurent’s arm and his hopes were dashed against the pink limestone walls they led him towards. “Theoemedes-Exalted wishes to see Crown Prince Auguste privately and orders his escort to remain here.”

Gasps rose from the company, and Halvik started forward, but Laurent made an abortive gesture. She halted, face grim, hand still on the hilt of her sword, with Kashel beside her, eyes wide with horror. Vannes and Nicaise cried out, their horses starting forward, but the javelins urged them back. Jord and Lazar were trying to dismount and go after him, but it was no use. 

“Unhand me!” Laurent tried, digging his heels into the cobbles and struggling, though he was held by two guards and flanked by two others, rendering his attempts to escape useless. Dimly, he was aware of his sword – Guymar’s sword – being taken, leaving him feeling light and numb in its absence. _I still have the dagger,_ he thought, and clung to that, because it was all he had left as the guards dragged him through the portcullis and down a side corridor off the main courtyard, which made Laurent’s heart beat ever faster, knowing and dreading who was behind this. Sure enough, they stopped at a nondescript door and shoved him unceremoniously through it, and Laurent found himself in a small, dim room with all of his enemies.

“Hello, nephew,” his uncle said. 

Laurent opened his mouth to scream, but the guard’s hand clamped over it. He scanned the room – all of his uncle’s remaining men were there, Govart among them, sneering viciously at Laurent from beside his uncle, who sat in a chair against the only window in the room, his posture casual and distinctly smug. But not as smug as Aimeric, who leaned against the wall beside him, smirking and flicking two gold coins at the Akielon guards. They quickly took the coin and left the room, shutting the door behind them. Laurent felt trapped; sealed in to his own tomb. His tongue felt heavy and his throat felt cold. He did not speak. 

His uncle did, though, rising from the chair and crossing the room. “Oh, Laurent. Did you really think this could possibly end any other way? I admit, you evaded us longer than expected. You could have been back in Vere, by now. But I knew you wouldn’t leave. I knew you would come to me, eventually.”

Aimeric sauntered forward as well, Laurent’s circlet glinting coldly on his brow, dark blonde hair falling in waves to his shoulders. Laurent wanted to rip that crown from his head, and his hair along with it. “The goose boy’s playing dress-up,” he simpered. “You were right to stay among the dirt and the animals. It’s where you belong.”

“Enough talk,” his uncle said, turning to Govart. “Can you take him safely out of the palace?”

Govart nodded, stepping forward eagerly. “It will be easier if he is unable to scream.”

His uncle shrugged, indifferent. “Do what you must.”

Laurent backed away, towards the door, but Enguerran moved to block it. “Don’t touch me,” Laurent spat.

Govart smiled, yellow and cracked. “I won’t kill you yet,” he said. “Just put you to sleep.” His hand raised, curling into a fist. 

Laurent reached out to the wind, searching desperately for it. He found a faint breeze, and in a panic Laurent sent it flying at Govart without gathering enough of it, resulting in a small flurry of parchment falling from a table, making several people glance over and doing little else. But with it the wind carried images, of guards coming down the hall, to the door. 

“Someone is here,” Laurent said, without breaking his uncle’s gaze. 

There was a knock. His uncle started. 

Govart flinched and drew back, mouth twisting in an ugly snarl. “Told you he was a witch,” he growled. 

Enguerran moved away from the door, opening it, and four guards with the Akielon lion emblazoned on their chests stood in the doorway. “Theomedes-Exalted has been informed of Crown Prince Auguste’s arrival from Vere, and wishes to see him. Now.”

“But of course,” Aimeric said sweetly, and Laurent stepped away from Govart’s grasp and into the King’s escort, knowing he was hardly any less safe with them should Theomedes reject his claims. His uncle’s men followed behind, Aimeric and his uncle leading them, and the tension was so palpable that even the Akielon guards shifted and glanced about as they walked into the palace’s small throne room. 

It was much simpler than the throne room Laurent had entered back in the city, decorated only with several elegant marble statues against the walls. A row of high, narrow windows spilled patches of sunlight across the stone floor, alternating between warm and cold as Laurent walked from patch to patch, towards the throne and dais where the royal party stood, waiting. Behind the throne, covering much of the far wall, was an enormous tapestry of the Akielon lion woven in painstaking detail, faded with age. 

As they approached, Laurent saw Theomedes on his throne, alongside Kastor, Damianos, other tall men in noble attire, and several clustered guards, including one in particular, who watched Laurent’s approach with a kind of confused concentration, head tilted and brow furrowed.

_My hair,_ Laurent realized. _Damen doesn’t recognize me for my hair._

They reached the dais. The guards withdrew. Aimeric, his uncle, and the other Veretians gathered just off to the side, on the steps. His uncle watched him with a thin, knowing smile. 

Laurent bowed.

“Crown Prince Auguste,” Theomedes said, with raised eyebrows.

“No,” Laurent said, and the King’s eyebrows rose to his hairline. 

“No?” Theomedes echoed, half-mocking, half-dangerous. 

“No, I am not Auguste,” he said, and Theomedes’s gaze hardened, and he raised a hand, and the guards returned. “Please, wait, listen to me, I am –”

“Seize him,” Theomedes ordered, and Aimeric’s smirk grew, and the guards reached to grab him –

“Wait.” Damen. A guard, interrupting a king?

Laurent stared, confused, as Damen stepped forward, squinting into the bright sunlight, eyes widening in startled but joyful recognition as the light shifted. “Lykos? Lykos, what are you doing here?” 

“My name isn’t Lykos,” Laurent said, feeling hollow, especially as Damen’s bright expression fell away. “I was born Laurent Émile Adrien Rabat, Second Prince of Vere. That man,” he pointed, “is not a prince, but the last son of Councillor Guion, Lord of Fortaine. And my uncle, the Ambassador to Akielos, is the one who orchestrated the coup of my company on the way to Ios, forcing me to disguise myself until now.”

Damen stared, jaw actually dropping. Theomedes rose from his throne. “What is the meaning of this?” He turned to Damen. “You know this boy?”

Damen could not seem to stop staring at Laurent. “Y-yes…we were…I knew him as a goose boy, named Lykos. I…visited him often in the pasture where he worked.”

Laurent’s uncle chose that as the moment to speak up. “Oh, dear. Allow me to shed some light on this unfortunate situation – this boy is the one I told you of, the lord’s son who slipped away in the Forest after stealing a bag of coins and one of Prince Laurent’s jackets. There was no coup.” He clicked his tongue, disapproving. “But it seems Aimeric has decided to go even farther with his betrayal, and involve your Crown Prince in his little game. Aimeric is infamous for twisting others around his little finger to get what he wants.” The power in his uncle’s words twisted through the room, humming in Laurent’s ears, his head bowing under the force of them. _Resist it. You are stronger than him._

Theomedes’s face purpled, and he glared thunderously at Laurent. “You tried to seduce my son?!” He turned to Damen, who looked stricken. “Damianos, is this true?”

Laurent felt as if the floor had come out from under him. “Damianos?” he repeated. “ _You_ are Damianos?”

Damen – _Damianos_ – faltered, his brow smoothing slightly. “You didn’t know?” he asked, sounding hopeful. Laurent, trembling, shook his head. It was all he could do. 

Kastor scoffed, folding his arms. “Of course he bloody knew, Damen, don’t be a fool. Stop thinking with your cock for once, would you?” 

“Kastor, that is enough,” Theomedes grumbled. “Damianos, do not allow your emotion to cloud your judgment.”

Damen frowned, uncertainty creeping into his face again. “Lykos…are you truly Veretian? Truly Laurent?”

“Yes,” Laurent said, “yes, I swear to you that I am.”

“What was that you said about a coup?” the man Laurent had thought was Damianos asked.

Theomedes’s jaw clenched. “Nikandros, the Ambassador has already dismissed that as a falsehood.”

“Respectfully, Exalted, I believe it would be beneficial to hear both sides of the story,” Nikandros replied, glancing at Damen thoughtfully, and then at Aimeric, eyes narrowing. The name was vaguely familiar – Nikandros was the new Kyros of Ios, if Laurent was not mistaken…and likely one of Damen’s close friends. He clung to the hope that Nikandros might be on his side.

Theomedes looked irritated, but relented, sitting back heavily. “Fine. Is there more to your tale, goose boy, or lordling, or whatever you are?”

Laurent nodded. “Yes. The coup is no falsehood – in the Foloi Forest, my uncle and his hired mercenaries attacked my guards, killing most of them, and forcing me to flee and hide all these months as a servant. However, my personal guards Jord and Lazar survived, due to the care of the court physician, Paschal, who all accompanied me here but were detained outside the gates. If you would only listen to their testimonies –”

“Ah, yes, Jord, your cohort, and Lazar, a mercenary himself,” his uncle interrupted scornfully. “Poor Paschal was coerced into joining your little band of miscreants, or outright threatened – what could an elderly physician do against armed guards? He never stood a chance.”

“You murdered them!” Laurent exclaimed, hands clenching into fists. “You claim that your hands are clean, and yet you slaughtered them all, your own countrymen! And you were not content with that; you had to kill Falada, too!”

“Falada?” Theomedes said, rubbing his temples. “Who is Falada?”

His uncle’s eyes glinted. “Exalted, I had hoped to avoid this…rather sensitive topic, but…it seems you leave me no choice. Aimeric is utterly convinced he can speak to animals, including Falada, Prince Laurent’s stallion.”

Damen looked at Laurent sharply, lips pressing into a firm line. Laurent wilted under his gaze. _Not you, too. Please, not you._

“The stallion that went mad?” Theomedes asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“The same,” his uncle said, shaking his head in mock-sympathy. “Aimeric has been under this delusion for some time, though we only discovered the true extent of his madness recently. The poor boy not only believes he can speak to prince’s horses, but to birds and wolves and all manner of beast. Clearly, he is not the most reliable of sources, and should receive help for his condition.”

“I see that,” Theomedes said slowly. “Well, then, I believe we are done here. We should focus on matters of war, not delusional Veretian boys.”

“Yes, let’s focus on the war,” Laurent interjected. “The war is my uncle’s idea, a plot to hide his bloody deeds and the imposter he would have your prince marry. Vere has no intention of invading Akielos – we would be suicidal to even consider it! Your navy and army far surpass ours, and we have just signed a peace treaty to _prevent_ war. Why would we attack Akielos?”

“It tires me to puzzle out the minds and reasoning of Veretians,” Theomedes said dismissively. “War is rarely sensible – it is motivated by the desire for power, nothing more. And Akielos’s power will not be challenged.” Nikandros opened his mouth, then closed it at Theomedes’s warning look. 

“Father,” Damen said, “we should listen to him.”

Theomedes frowned at his son. “We have listened enough,” he declared. “This impudent boy announces himself as Crown Prince Auguste, then he says he’s Prince Laurent, then you call him Lykos, and then he’s Aimeric. Whoever he is, he’d better decide quickly so we know what to engrave on his gravestone. I sense treason.” He stood again, looking at Laurent down his nose. “Prince Laurent, what is the punishment for treason in Vere?”

Laurent opened his mouth to answer, but Theomedes was addressing Aimeric. “Exalted, it is a grave crime indeed, and thus a public castigation,” Aimeric replied, eyes wide and innocent. “In Vere, traitors are placed naked in a barrel full of nails and dragged through the streets by a white horse. It is tradition, however unpleasant it might be.”

Laurent’s skin prickled with phantom pain. The punishment for treason in Vere was banishment, but he could not find his voice. He could feel his uncle’s eyes on him – they had discussed that punishment beforehand; he was certain of it. 

Theomedes shook his head. “At this rate, I have half a mind to put him in the dungeons in Ios until this blasted war is over. He is not our citizen, nor our concern. Perhaps a quick execution would suffice, and take this nonsense off my hands.”

“Dungeons? Execution?” Damen echoed. “No one has proven he’s done anything criminal!”

“It is wartime, Damianos,” Theomedes said, gesturing for the guards to carry Laurent away. “I don’t need proof.”

“Father, wait,” Damen said, lying a staying hand on Theomedes’s shoulder. The king looked at him askance. “As you said, he isn’t your citizen, nor your concern. So leave him here with the Veretians, and together they can come to a resolution, and perhaps the reminder of his punishment will encourage him to tell the truth.”

Theomedes threw up his hands in vexation. “Fine. Ambassador, call for my captain of the guard in an hour. If you have failed to persuade him to tell the truth, we shall lock him up until we have time for this.”

“Understood, Exalted,” Laurent’s uncle said, smiling. 

Laurent took a step back. “No,” he whispered, and then, louder, “Damen, no, you don’t understand – don’t leave me with them!”

But Damen was leaving with Theomedes, Kastor, Nikandros, and all the other Akielons who might have saved him. Laurent started towards them as they headed for the door, desperation filling him, but the guards stopped him. 

Damen paused before the door, scanning the room, gaze settling on Laurent. “It’s for the best, Lykos,” he said quietly.

“No!” Laurent cried, dignity forgotten in favor of survival, fighting against the guards’ grip on his arms. “They’re murderers; they’re going to kill me! Damen, if you ever cared for me, if I ever meant anything to you – do not leave me here!”

But Damen shook his head and turned away; going out down the corridor with his father, and something inside of Laurent broke. Only the two guards remained, and Laurent tried to pull them back as they, too, turned to go. “Stay,” Laurent pleaded, “just you two stay, please!”

The guards shoved him off, scowling and hurrying away, and Laurent dashed for the open door, but it slammed in his face, locking with a click that sounded like a nail in a coffin. Laurent slumped against it, terror tangling in his chest, nails digging into the wood as he watched his uncle and Aimeric approach, stopping in the middle of the room. 

His uncle beckoned him closer. “Away from the door,” he murmured. “I would rather no one heard us just now.”

Laurent stayed where he was, trying to find movement in the still, stale air, something, anything, _help._ But there was none, there was no help for him here. He kicked and fought uselessly as two of his uncle’s men took ahold of him and carried him across the room, dumping him on the dais steps. Laurent scrambled to sit upright, his uncle and Aimeric standing before him, triumph mirrored in both of their faces. And behind him, Govart, his shadow falling over Laurent like a circling vulture. Carrion birds, all of them, lined up in a rough semicircle behind his uncle, watching with hungry eyes. 

And his uncle was a bird of prey, ready to make the kill. “I have dreamed of this moment,” his said, his tone almost fond. “I knew you couldn’t run forever, nephew. And now you will never run again.”

“You cannot kill me here,” Laurent said, with no amount of certainty.

“No?” his uncle said. “Perhaps I don’t want to kill you, nephew. Perhaps I can think of something better.”

Laurent’s gut twisted. Aimeric sneered down at him. “We’re here to make you tell the truth, aren’t we?” Aimeric crooned. “So just tell the truth, _Laurent_. Tell them you’re just a poor, lost little boy with delusions of grandeur. Tell them you were wrong, and we were right, and we will let you live. We may even let you return to your quaint little gooseherd.”

“I will never tell them your lies,” Laurent snapped. “You can’t make me.”

“Have faith, Laurent,” his uncle said, “I believe you will see reason.” And then Govart wrenched Laurent to his feet, prompting a thorny pain to tear through his half-healed wound, increasing tenfold when Govart’s thumb pressed into it cruelly. 

Laurent did not scream, but it was a near thing. “You can’t,” he gritted out, “make me.”

His uncle sighed. “Your stubbornness will get you nowhere. Just like being a whore got you nowhere.”

Laurent laughed in his face. “Jealous, uncle?” He had the pleasure of seeing his uncle’s calm mask flicker. “And besides, you’re wrong.” He looked at Aimeric. “Don’t you know why you’ve had so much trouble persuading Damianos to love you? He fell in love with me months ago, and I didn’t even have to wear a crown.”

Aimeric blanched and slapped him across the face. “Shut up! He doesn’t love you! If he loves you, why did he leave?”

“Enough, Aimeric, he is only trying to antagonize you and make you doubt yourself,” his uncle soothed, though his eyes were still sharp. “Laurent, nephew, I am giving you one last chance to save yourself. It is more than you deserve.”

“Fuck you,” Laurent said, and spit in his face. It was worth it, even when Govart yanked his arms behind his back and held a dagger to his throat, probably the same one that had pierced through his back. Govart’s breath was hot against his ear. Laurent’s heart shuddered in his chest, but he held his head high, even when Govart’s elbow dug into the knife wound again, the agony bringing tears to his eyes that refused to spill over, blurring his vision.

“Oh, Laurent. I hate to see you like this when you were such a lovely boy,” his uncle said, folding his arms. 

Laurent glared at him through the tears. “No, uncle, I hate to see _you_ like this. You were never a good man, but this…betraying your own country, your own brother, your own nephews – and for what? A stolen throne granted to you by a warmongering king too blinded by pride to see you for what you really are?”

“And what am I, Laurent?” his uncle enquired. “Do enlighten me.”

“A snake,” Laurent hissed, “that’s what you are. A selfish, cruel, lying snake who bribes and betrays and manipulates and murders and takes little boys to his bed.” 

His uncle regarded him with those cool gray eyes, and Laurent saw nothing in them but hate. “I did consider taking up Theomedes on his offer and leaving you in an Akielon dungeon to rot, nephew, but I see now that is too generous. You have been nothing but a thorn in my side from the start, and the best way to deal with thorns is to remove them.”

Govart’s dagger pressed hard against his windpipe, shockingly cold. Laurent swallowed. “And how will you explain away this murder, uncle?”

“It would be so easy to claim you went mad and attacked us,” his uncle mused. “Just like your pretty white horse.”

“Stop,” Laurent said, blood running cold. 

“It was too easy to break him,” his uncle continued. “It would be easy to break you too, nephew, but I have no patience left for you.” He turned to Aimeric. “We will have Govart cut you after he kills Laurent, and say that Laurent attacked, and we were simply defending you.”

Aimeric stared at him, brows drawing together. “Cut me? With…with that?” He eyed Govart’s dagger nervously. “Why does it have to be me?” he whined. 

“Just a shallow cut, Aimeric,” his uncle said, irritated, grabbing Aimeric’s arm and making him let out a startled squeak. “Enough to make you bleed.”

“But I don’t want to bleed!” Aimeric whimpered, wrist twitching in the Ambassador’s grip. 

“Aimeric,” he said, the power of people-speaking seeping once more into the air like a poisonous mist. Laurent swore he saw Aimeric’s eyes turn foggy, unfocused. It was revolting – his uncle didn’t even need belladonna to put Aimeric under his control. “You are the prince; therefore your life is most valuable. This is the only way. We must convince the Akielons that Laurent’s death was deserved.”

“Oh,” Aimeric whispered, biting his lip. “I understand.”

“They’ll never believe you,” Laurent said, though the flat of the dagger was biting into his skin with increasing pressure.

His uncle smiled thinly. “How will you clear your name with a cut throat, nephew?”

“Don’t touch him!”

Everyone turned to look in the direction of the voice, towards the dais and the throne. It was empty. There was no one there. His uncle took a step forward. Aimeric froze, eyes wide. Govart trembled. “What witchcraft is this, boy?” he growled.

But it was not witchcraft at all. Laurent’s eyes were drawn not to the throne, but to the tapestry behind it, which was…moving. Yes, the center of it was fluttering like a bird’s breast, and as Laurent watched, breathless, the edge of it lifted and Damen burst forth, followed by Nikandros, the king, and the king’s guard. 

Laurent felt like crying. Or laughing. Or both. Govart swore, and Aimeric gasped, and his uncle…his uncle did nothing at all.

Damen scanned the room, and when he saw Govart with his dagger to Laurent’s throat he shouted in wordless rage, drawing his sword and rushing forward. Dazed, all Laurent could think was that he was the most beautiful thing he had seen in his entire life. 

“Get back or he dies!” Govart warned, turning the dagger so that Laurent could feel the sharp edge. 

Damen stopped, but did not sheathe his sword. “Don’t be a fool,” he said. “You hurt him and I’ll kill you all.”

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Laurent’s uncle said, his voice lacking all of its usual cool composure. “I’m certain we can come to some sort of agreement –”

“On the contrary, we understand everything,” Theomedes retorted, his voice booming through the room. “Clever passageway back there, isn’t it? Like something you’d find in a damn Veretian palace. I had forgotten it was there until my son reminded me as soon as we’d left you. We heard it all. How convenient that you’ve already told us the punishment for treason, Ambassador.”

Aimeric covered his mouth with a hand. Laurent’s uncle had gone ashen, his eyes hazy as if he could not believe this was happening. Govart’s dagger shook alarmingly against Laurent’s throat. “I’ll kill him, believe I will!”

“My son is correct,” Theomedes said coldly, “if you kill him, all your lives are forfeit. Release him, and you will be judged fairly.”

“Damen,” Laurent whispered, as the shaky blade nicked his throat. 

“Stay still,” Damen implored, an edge to his voice as sharp as the blade as he saw the thin rivulet of scarlet trickle down Laurent’s neck. 

“Let the true prince go,” Theomedes ordered, “unless you all have a deathwish.”

“Tell them to leave us and let us take you away, Laurent,” his uncle said, and Laurent had never felt the full force of his uncle’s power before, but it hit him then, yet his uncle’s voice quavered with too many tones, too many façades, too many lies, and underneath it all the overwhelming hate and jealousy that Laurent had seen in his eyes. It was powerful, but the power was uneven, chaotic and panicky, and so Laurent was able to close his eyes and resist it. 

“Tell them,” his uncle repeated, louder, stronger, but Laurent was focusing not on his voice, but on the cool corridor draft that drifted into the room from behind the passageway, brushing Laurent’s brow in greeting. 

“No,” Laurent said, and lifted his head, opening his eyes and gathering the breeze around him, and it beckoned the other breezes – a high draft from the rafters and a cold current through a window until they became a wind, swirling around him, growing in intensity, rushing up his body and circling his hips and waist, forcing itself between himself and Govart. 

The room had fallen silent. Everyone was watching him, yet Laurent only saw Damen, eyes wide and lips parted in awe. 

The wind wedged itself against the blade, attempting to push it away, and Govart tightened his grip. “Stop it! Stop it!” he cried, terrified. But the wind did not, and it recognized Govart – it remembered the last time it had stopped him from killing its prince, and it wanted to finish the job. “Witch!” Govart gasped.

Laurent felt that new source of wind against the back of his head, and when he reached for it, it felt as natural as any other. So he tugged, and beckoned the long string of breath from Govart’s mouth, unhooked from his throat and lungs like a snail from its shell. Govart made a choked sound, and Laurent pulled harder, and felt Govart’s grip slacken as he staggered, breathless, crumpling to the ground with a satisfying thump and a clatter as the dagger slid across the smooth marble, well out of his reach. Laurent stood over him, commanding Govart’s own stolen breath to wrap around his fat neck and squeeze, until there was no breath left at all. 

Laurent turned back to face the others as Govart twitched violently and stilled, eyes staring sightlessly, bulging with eternal fright. The Veretians stared at him, drawn swords shaking, and backed away as Laurent took a step forward, surrounded by a twisting, living layer of air. Aimeric scrambled backwards, pale as a ghost, until only his uncle was standing his ground, staring at Laurent with a total lack of comprehension, as if he could not possibly reconcile his blushing, bookish nephew to the man standing before him now. 

“Your war is done,” Laurent said, voice ringing out cool and clear. “You’ve lost, uncle.”

His uncle’s brow lowered, his gaze turning dangerous, tinged with madness. “Have I?” 

It all happened in an instant. With one fluid movement, Laurent’s uncle lunged forward and seized Govart’s dagger from where it had fallen, and then he threw it, a vicious slice of silver, aiming perfectly for Laurent’s heart. 

“No!” Damen shouted. 

Then, time seemed to slow. Laurent saw the blade, its path straight and true, its destination in his chest inevitable. Yet he felt something shift – he could not move out of the way, it was too quick for that – but something inside of him, something instinctual, something so powerful that it shook him to the core and used every bit of energy flowing through him. 

The shockwave sent Laurent stumbling backwards as the invisible layer of wind became invisible armor, an impenetrable shield that stopped the dagger in its tracks, thin air gaining solidity for a second. The dagger sank into the layer of air, suspended briefly, and then fell uselessly to the floor; just like Laurent, who swayed and toppled hard onto the marble, the barrier falling with him. 

Distantly, Laurent was aware of his uncle’s furious cry, a roared order in Akielon, and then the sounds of battle, swords clashing like discordant bells, the shouts of men in two different languages, overlapping into dissonant nonsense. 

Then one of his uncle’s mercenaries stood over him, sword raised, and Laurent could not even roll away, so exhausted that the mere idea of moving was impossible. He braced himself for the blow…

…but it never came. A sword burst from the mercenary’s chest, and for a terrifying moment Laurent saw Orlant again, but as the man was shoved aside Damen was revealed behind him, holding his bloodied sword in one hand and grasping Laurent’s arm with the other, heaving him up. Laurent swayed and slumped into him, utterly drained. Weak remnants of wind flickered across Laurent’s skin restlessly, and Damen shivered when they touched him, but did not shy away. 

“I can’t –”

“Shh, shh, here, just stay here, you’re safe,” Damen murmured, backing him up against the wall as Laurent’s knees threatened to give out, his head lolling to the side. Damen’s body shielded him from the battle, though Laurent could still see a glimpse of it, and he could see enough to know that the Akielons were outnumbered. 

Then the door flew open with a deafening _bang_ , revealing Jord, Lazar, Vannes, Halvik, Kashel, Nicaise, with all the other workers and Vaskians struggling through the corridor behind them, lifting their crooks and staffs and swords as one. The Akielon and Veretian guards alike faltered, unsure whose side these newcomers were on, but it became quite apparent when Vannes burst forth and cried, “For Laurent! For our goose boy! For the true Prince of Vere and Akielos!”

If the throne room had not been chaos before, it was now. The Veretians charged with the desperation of dying men, hacking and slashing at whatever and whomever they could, the Akielons breaking through their guard easily as the Veretians became increasingly frantic and careless. The workers made up for what they lacked in skill with their enthusiasm. The dull thuds of javelins and swords and staves striking flesh echoed in Laurent’s ears, and he buried his face in Damen’s back, feeling small and scared and helpless. 

Then, suddenly, there was a lull, and when Laurent opened his eyes and peered cautiously around Damen’s shoulder, he saw a sight he would never forget. His uncle, forced to his knees, with three Akielon guards surrounding him, their blades to his neck, and facing him, King Theomedes, tipping his chin up with the tip of his sword.

“You’re making a mistake,” his uncle said, and as Damen slowly moved aside, still supporting Laurent with an arm around his waist, Laurent could see the red blooming on his uncle’s side, staining his fine jacket. _He bleeds,_ Laurent thought numbly. _He bleeds._

Theomedes chuckled darkly. “Oh, this ought to be good. Go on. Entertain us.”

“My nephew is a monster,” his uncle snapped. “You saw it for yourself! He’s not natural – a witch, or a demon, or simply mad. I was doing you a favor by disposing of him. He will bring about your ruin.”

Theomedes shook his head, something like pity in his eyes. “No, Ambassador. He brought about _your_ ruin.”

For a second Laurent thought the king was going to drive the blade into his uncle’s neck, but then he withdrew it, sheathing his sword and nodding to the guards. “Lock him up,” he ordered. “He will be held here until Vere can punish him properly. A barrel of nails, was it?”

“Gag him,” Laurent said, and Theomedes glanced over, surprised. His uncle’s eyes narrowed with unadulterated hate. Laurent smiled demurely. “My uncle can be quite persuasive, Exalted. To ensure he stays locked up, I suggest you either gag him, or cut out his tongue, whichever you prefer.”

Theomedes raised an eyebrow, and turned back to his guards. “Gag him, then lock him up. If he says anything else about his nephew, cut out his tongue.” He nodded to Laurent. “Fair?”

“Very,” Laurent said, and hoped nobody noticed when he again slumped into Damen’s side, still fatigued. Damen did notice, though, and squeezed his hip reassuringly.

“We’ll find somewhere quiet for you to rest,” he said quietly as the guards dragged Laurent’s uncle away and the remaining Veretians were similarly shackled and removed. Most of them had been killed, though – the throne room was covered in bodies, variously marred and bleeding, painting the white floors red. Halvik and the Vaskians were helping the Akielon guards and Nikandros clear the bodies out, before the stench of death could seep into the throne room. Laurent was hardly surprised to see Paschal trailing after them, checking for pulses, and quietly assisting an injured Akielon who stared at him in confusion.

And there, standing off to the side, were Jord and Lazar, cleaning their swords and surveying the carnage with somber expressions. Lazar had a cut on his shoulder, and Laurent smiled to himself when Pallas tentatively approached him and helped bandage the wound with a strip of cloth. The other workers were similarly helping each other, and Laurent was relieved when Vannes and Kashel hurried over to him, both uninjured. They hovered uncertainly before Damen, who was distracted by the scarf around Laurent’s neck. 

“This is the scarf I gave you,” he marveled, voice warm and pleased and slightly shocked, reaching out to carefully wipe away the thin smear of blood from Laurent’s collarbone with his thumb. Laurent flushed, clearing his throat and jerking his head towards his awkwardly waiting friends. 

Vannes’s eyes widened. “Wait,” she said, “ _he’s_ the friend who gave you the scarf?”

Damen’s eyes widened right back. “Uh –”

“Let me _guess_ , you were both hiding your identities from each other, how perfect, how absolutely _perfect_ ,” Vannes groused. 

Kashel blinked. “I know your disguise was a goose boy named Lykos, but what was his?”

“He told me he was a palace guard named Damen,” Laurent mumbled.

“Damen!” Vannes exclaimed, exasperated. “And you didn’t think to mention that to me? Half the kingdom knows that’s the Crown Prince’s nickname!”

“I…thought it was a common name in Akielos?” Laurent tried. 

“Not really,” Damen admitted, shamefaced. “It was an awful disguise.”

“I cannot believe,” Vannes started, and then seemed to realize she was half-yelling at her Crown Prince, and turned pink, dropping into a hasty curtsey. “Ah, apologies, Damianos-Exalted.” Then, under her breath, “ _Damen_ , honestly, are you _kidding me_.”

Kashel, meanwhile, was looking around and frowning. “Where is Aimeric?” she asked, loud enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear.

The word reached Theomedes and he bellowed, “How did you let that little imposter escape?!”

Unbidden, the wind delivered images to Laurent’s head. “Through the secret passageway,” Laurent said, and the king ordered the guards to search the estate, shaking his head and muttering to himself about bratty Veretian boys. 

Laurent’s attention was diverted from the king and Aimeric as Kallias and Erasmus half-ran over to Vannes, both pale and worried-looking. “Are you hurt?” Vannes asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Have you seen Nicaise?” Erasmus pleaded. 

Vannes shook her head. “No, I thought he was with you two.”

“He was,” Kallias said grimly. “He got separated in the fray.”

Laurent’s heart sank, looking at the scattered corpses, searching for a blue cap and boyish frame among them though his whole being rebelled against the thought of Nicaise dead. 

Someone screamed. The sound came from behind the throne, and as everyone watched, the tapestry thumped and, when two guards pulled it aside, Nicaise came tumbling out, his hands full of pale hair and covered in fingernail scratches. 

“I got him!” Nicaise crowed, and Laurent could see Aimeric, prostrate on the ground, crying and squirming and kicking futilely. Laurent felt a little bad for him despite himself – all those years spent in the lap of luxury had turned Aimeric soft, and he had no chance at fighting off a fierce fourteen year old goose boy. Nicaise grinned proudly, and Laurent would have embraced him if he thought Nicaise wouldn’t hit him. 

As the guards carried a sobbing Aimeric away, ignoring his pleas and ugly blubbering, Nicaise skipped gleefully over to Laurent, wiping his bloodied hands off casually on his chiton. “Did you see me?” he asked, puffing his chest out. “I noticed him sneaking out like a coward and thought, that’s the fake yellow boy who tried to kill our real one. Found him trying to climb out a window and yanked him right back in. He fought less than a goose,” Nicaise added dismissively.

“And I assume geese put up quite a fight?”

Nicaise whirled, eyes going round as saucers as he saw King Theomedes staring down at him with mild amusement. 

“Yes, they do,” Laurent said. “This is the other goose boy, Nicaise. The real one.”

“You certainly proved yourself today, Nicaise,” Theomedes said, and Nicaise flushed. The king nodded to Vannes, Kallias, and Erasmus. “You all did. I am grateful for your loyalty to Akielos, and to our future Prince Consort.”

Nicaise bit his lip, cheeks still rosy. “He’s the real yellow boy, and I’m sorry that I ever thought otherwise.” He glanced at Laurent.

A whisper of wind left Laurent’s hand and nudged Nicaise’s cap. He looked at Laurent with mild panic. 

Laurent smiled at him. “Thank you, Nicaise.”

And Nicaise smiled back.


	13. Under His Wing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank god this story is almost over i'm running out of bird puns for the chapter titles (u don't know how tempted i was to name this chap 'the birds and the bees' i resisted tho)
> 
> warnings for rly sappy fluff and a smidgen of smut in this chapter.

The sky had begun to darken by the time all the bodies had been cleared from the throne room turned battlefield, and most of the workers had been given accommodations for the night. The Vaskians had refused any such accommodations and set up camp outside the palace, with the exception of Kashel, who mysteriously vanished for a time. Coincidentally, Vannes was also nowhere to be found. 

Laurent, however, did not get any such accommodations. All he was allowed was a cushioned chair to sit upon while he told King Theomedes, Damen, Nikandros, and Kastor the story of his uncle’s betrayal and his struggle to reclaim his stolen title. Laurent had told the story so many times that it felt like more of a chore than anything else, and he was tired besides, but it had to be told and so he related it to them in the privacy of the king’s council chamber. 

The king interjected occasionally to press him for details or question him, but for the most part he just listened with more patience than Laurent would have expected from him. Kastor, on the other hand, was visibly eager to get away from the meeting, and yawned obviously during the slower parts of the story. Nikandros listened with folded arms and a small frown, but Laurent did not think the frown was aimed at him. And Damen just listened, raptly, his expression changing throughout the tale, from angry to fond to sad to awed. When Laurent reached the part about Govart chasing and stabbing him, Damen’s jaw tightened and his eyes darkened with such fury that Laurent almost wished Govart was still alive so Damen could make him pay. 

Laurent tried to be as detailed as possible, except during the parts about seeing Damen in the pasture, because King Theomedes did _not_ need to know exactly what the Prince of Vere had done with his son under the beech tree. 

Of course they all had questions about his ability to talk to the animals and the wind, and he answered them as best he could, though he did not really understand them himself. He told them what his mother had once told him – about the three gifts, and how his uncle had the first, and she had the second, and he had the third. Damen and Theomedes seemed deeply intrigued by this, while Kastor yawned some more and Nikandros eyed him like he might send a tempest through the room at any moment. 

By the time he was done, his head hurt and he had to keep blinking his eyes to keep them open. “And that’s all of it,” Laurent told them quietly, sitting back in his chair.

Theomedes sighed. “Thank you,” he said. “I suppose this means the war is off,” he added, grudgingly. “But the wedding is still on. It was going to be tomorrow, though it could be postponed a day or two given the circumstances.”

“Tomorrow?!” Laurent exclaimed. “No!”

Theomedes furrowed his brow. “No? Have you developed a sudden aversion for my son? You seem to have liked him well enough as a goose boy. And the treaty still stands, Prince Laurent – you must wed him.”

“I have developed nothing of the sort, and we will wed, but…not _tomorrow_.” Laurent bit his lip. “I…there are things to be sorted out, and people to be punished, and people to be rewarded, and messages to be sent, and meetings to be had. And I wish for my family to be present, when the wedding does happen. Is that so much to ask?”

“Of course not,” Damen said hastily, and Theomedes half-glared at him. “What? There is no rush, and Laurent is correct about there being a great many things to attend to in the aftermath of his uncle’s scheming. The wedding can wait.”

Theomedes sighed, reluctant. “But…all the wedding preparations were made, and the feast is nearly ready. Do you propose we just throw away a wedding feast, Damianos?”

Kastor rolled his eyes. “Father, I do believe there is a precursor to marriage. A wedding feast could easily be repurposed as an engagement feast.”

Nikandros choked on his wine. Damen blinked at Kastor, surprised. Laurent got the impression that Kastor did not often offer insightful input. 

“An engagement feast,” Theomedes mused. “It is rather nontraditional, but there is no reason to waste such fine food. Perhaps we can split it into two nights, tonight and tomorrow. It is customary to feast and celebrate after a victorious battle,” he added for Laurent’s sake.

Laurent did not feel much like feasting, but he could see the appeal. The workers would surely enjoy the revelries, Jord and Lazar always welcomed the opportunity to eat and drink plentifully, and the Vaskians had been eying up the Akielon guards all day, so he supposed everyone would be happy. “I have no objection to that, so long as my allies can take part in the feast.”

Theomedes’s brow creased. “Even the servants?”

“Especially the servants.”

“It is already nontraditional, Father,” Damen wheedled. 

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” Theomedes said. “Though the Vaskians might put quite a dent in the feast.” His face brightened. “Or I could offer to let them hunt in the surrounding woods. Hunting with Vaskian warriors, now, that’s what I call entertainment.”

“Lovely,” Laurent said, another wave of fatigue coming over him. “Is that all, then?”

“One can only hope,” Kastor muttered.

“Yes, yes, dismissed,” Theomedes said, waving a hand. “The feast will be in several hours, I should think.”

Kastor left quickly. Nikandros stayed to speak with Theomedes, and Damen led Laurent out whilst Laurent tried not to lean on him too heavily. “I believe I ought to…retire for as long as possible,” Laurent mumbled as they left the room and headed down the corridor towards the royal residences, flanked by guards from a distance.

Damen nodded. “Of course. I’ll show you to your rooms.”

What he meant was Aimeric’s rooms, but neither of them said that. It was strange, being with Damen now – they had been reunited before an audience, and now that they were alone Laurent felt unsteady and awkward and did not quite know what to do or say. 

_Hello, Damianos, it’s been so many months since you sent me that letter and left my heart in pieces. I know you liked Lykos the goose boy, but unfortunately for you, Lykos never really existed. I’m actually a Veretian prince who can speak to birds and control the wind. I do hope you still like me, because we’re bound to marry by a treaty that is the only thing currently standing between our respective countries and war._

Well, perhaps not that, though it was the truth.

They reached a set of doors much plainer than Aimeric’s apartments in the city, and they opened into a much smaller but still lavish space, dominated by the canopied bed. Laurent looked at it, and imagined Aimeric sleeping there, and imagined Aimeric there with someone else, and suddenly he could not step any further into the room.

Damen furrowed his brow and looked down at him. “Are you alright?”

“I don’t want to sleep here,” Laurent told him, turning his face away from the bed. “I. I cannot sleep here.”

“Oh,” Damen said, and he did not understand, and Laurent was not about to explain it to him. But he still took Laurent’s hand, clasping it gently in his own, and said, “Would you be able to sleep in my bed?” Laurent’s eyes widened slightly. Damen flushed. “Just – just sleeping, I swear, you look exhausted and I only wanted to offer –”

Laurent laughed at him, just a small chuckle, but it made Damen relax. “That would be generous of you,” Laurent said, inclining his head and squeezing Damen’s hand. “I _am_ exhausted, and likely to topple at any moment. You may have to carry me.”

“Do you want me to?” Damen asked seriously, mischief in his eyes. “I could.”

Ridiculously, Laurent’s heart sped up a little at the thought of Damen tossing him over his shoulder like a sack of flour. “Oh, hush,” Laurent retorted. “Save your brutish shows of strength for our marriage night and let me walk on my own while I am still able.”

Damen turned a deeply mortified shade of red. “Uh,” he said eloquently. 

“Oh, for – I didn’t mean –” Laurent huffed. “I need sleep.”

“I can see that,” Damen said, still pink, but he did not let go of Laurent’s hand, and led him down the hall a ways to the Crown Prince’s apartments. They were larger than Aimeric’s, and so was the canopied bed. It was strewn with pillows and was higher off the ground than most Akielon beds, and the mattress looked a foot deep. Laurent almost swooned at the sight of it. Almost. 

“Will this do?” Damen asked, as Laurent let go of his hand and wandered into the room, admiring the tapestry of a winged horse hanging on the far wall, gaze sweeping over the shelves and wondering at the little trinkets placed there – shells and swords and helmets and statuettes. 

“Adequate,” Laurent said, and went to the bed. He took his boots off, but only his boots, and curled up on the bed on top of the sheets in full dress. Damen was standing uncertainly on the threshold, the door shut behind him. Laurent raised an eyebrow at him. 

“I’ll leave you to rest, then,” Damen said, clearing his throat, and turned to go. 

Laurent was struck by an inexplicable fear as Damen reached for the door, a fear that while he was alone here, in this strange room, in this strange palace, his uncle would find him, somehow, and finish what he had started. 

“Stay,” Laurent said, or pleaded, and Damen stopped, looking at him curiously. “Just. Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone.”

He sounded like a child, and was fully prepared for Damen to laugh and leave him there, but instead Damen nodded and said easily, “Whatever you want.”

Laurent closed his eyes and rolled onto his other side, so he wouldn’t have to face Damen and his stupid, earnest, open expression. He listened to the sounds of Damen moving about the room, and burrowed deeper into the endless pillows and eiderdown mattress, letting his future husband’s absentminded humming lull him to sleep.

*

Damen woke him some time later, and Laurent stirred, disoriented, startled by Damen’s face peering down at him. “I tried to let you sleep as long as possible,” Damen said ruefully, “but Nikandros just yelled at me about being late for our own engagement, so I think the feast’s starting now.”

“You let the Kyros yell at you?” Laurent asked, sitting up and stifling a yawn. He felt much better, and when he stood he did not feel in danger of collapsing anymore. 

“He is my friend,” Damen said, grinning at Laurent with far too much glee. “And sometimes I deserve to be yelled at.”

Laurent scowled at him. “Why do you have that oafish smile on your face?”

“Your hair,” Damen said, still grinning. “It looks like a bird’s nest.”

Laurent spluttered and reached up to attempt to fix it, but Damen beat him to it, and Laurent stilled at the sensation of Damen’s fingers in his hair, combing through the strands carefully. “You –” Laurent started, and couldn’t finish, as Damen’s thumb brushed against his cheek. They were very close. 

“There,” Damen murmured, “much better. Shall we go?”

“My boots,” Laurent said, and Damen glanced at them, considering.

“Sit on the bed,” he said, and Laurent did, confused, all his confusion replaced by disbelief as Damen fell to his knees and slipped the first boot over Laurent’s foot, lacing it up with an attentiveness that made Laurent’s mouth go dry. And then the other, just as careful and focused, and Damen’s fingertips brushed purposefully over his ankle and Laurent could not breathe. 

Damen stood just as gracefully as he had knelt, and offered Laurent a hand. “Still too many laces,” he remarked, mouth twitching.

“We’re going to be late,” Laurent said, and hoped his voice didn’t sound too strained.

*

They were late. But not late enough for Nikandros to yell at Damen again, and nobody in attendance seemed to care very much about their lateness anyway. They sat at the long table on the banquet hall dais, with Kastor next to Damen and Nikandros next to Laurent. Laurent half-wished he could have sat with the workers at their raucous table, but had to be satisfied with the little wave Vannes gave him and the sight of Nicaise trying to balance a full wine goblet on his chin. It was not going well. 

Damen and Kastor became involved in some heated discussion involving wrestling, or javelins, Laurent didn’t quite know or care. He was still a bit drowsy, and in shock, so he just sipped his wine quietly and picked at his meal, preferring to observe everyone else as they celebrated.

Until Nikandros leaned over and said under his breath, “I need to have a word with you.”

Laurent turned slowly to look at him, wine glass halfway to his lips. “Yes?”

“You were Lykos,” he said. It was not a question. “The goose boy Damianos was smitten over.”

“Yes, and?”

Nikandros glanced furtively at Damen. He was still talking passionately about weaponry. “He was a mess for weeks after,” he said. “Sulking and brooding and avoiding everyone – not himself at all.” His eyes narrowed as if this was supposed to mean something to Laurent.

“He was the one who ended it,” Laurent said shortly. “Are you blaming me for his actions?”

“He had no choice but to end it!” Nikandros snapped. “He should have ended it before it even started! But he didn’t.” He exhaled. “Damianos becomes easily attached, and finds it very hard to let go. I think you are the opposite. I think that he cares for you more than you will ever know, or care for him.”

Laurent sniffed. “I am well aware you disliked Aimeric. But I am not Aimeric.”

“You are both blond, scheming Veretians too close to his heart,” Nikandros replied. “I see little difference, except that one is a fraud.”

“No?” Laurent leaned towards him. “You think I used Damianos as a pawn in that pasture, and turned his emotions against him, and had no emotion of my own? You do not think I felt anything when I read the letter he sent me? You do not think I feel anything for him, even now?”

“I heard what you said in the throne room,” Nikandros hissed. “ _‘Don’t you know why you’ve had so much trouble persuading Damianos to love you?’_ You just wanted to distract him from Aimeric by making him pine over a servant boy who was nothing but a decoy, so you would have a better chance of winning him over when the time was right.”

Laurent took a long sip of his whine, and let out a long breath. “Nikandros,” he said. “Truly, I did not know he was the Crown Prince. I did not want his affections. I denied him the first time he visited me. I do not take kindly to strange men approaching me with gifts in hand.” The kyros frowned, but did not interrupt. “I did not know what to make of him, and I was afraid of rejecting his inevitable advances.”

“But you did not reject them,” Nikandros said.

“I did,” Laurent said, and Nikandros’s brows rose. “The first time, I did.”

Nikandros looked uncertain. “You did not seduce him?”

Laurent scoffed. “No, I did not, and I never intended to. I am not some heartless temptress, much as you would like me to be.”

Damen leaned over, looking intrigued. “What was that about a heartless temptress?”

“I was just telling Nikandros a story,” Laurent replied. “What were you and Kastor talking about?”

Damen launched into an excited recap of his conversation with Kastor, which turned out to be about both wrestling and javelins, and Laurent listened, and was surprisingly entertained. When Damen had finished and gotten wrapped up in another conversation, Nikandros said quietly, “I want to believe you. For Damen’s sake, I hope that what you say is true.” He regarded Laurent for a few moments silently. “Do you care for him?”

Laurent looked into his wine, at his pale reflection on the dark, liquid surface. “Yes,” he said. He looked at Nikandros. “I care for him very much.”

Nikandros did not question him further, and his face settled into the look of a man at peace, or at least a man on his way to it. 

The feast dragged on, and there was music, and some dramatic poetry, and Laurent managed to finish his cup of wine and found himself moving closer to Damen, until their sides were nearly touching and his head was practically resting on Damen’s shoulder, which was a very comfortable pillow. He was sleepy, but not in the drained way he had been before – just pleasantly warm and fuzzy with the first signs of tipsiness, and the festive atmosphere, and the heat of Damen next to him. 

Then Damen’s hand absently lifted to stroke his hair, the casual gesture sweet and achingly tender, and suddenly Laurent did not want to be at the feast anymore.

Damen felt him tense, and opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but Laurent only said, “Would you invite me to your rooms again, Damianos?”

Damen’s hand settled on the nape of his neck, warm and heavy. “Our rooms,” he said, low, and Laurent’s stomach flipped. 

They slipped away during the spirited dance, though they were in plain sight so it could hardly be called slipping away. Laurent could not find it in himself to be embarrassed as Damen walked with him out and down the wide halls, all empty and moonlit now, their footsteps echoing softly across the marble like twin heartbeats. They reached the set of doors and Laurent did not know what would happen beyond them, tonight or any other night, but he was not afraid of it.

How could he be afraid, when Damen led him inside and took Laurent’s face carefully in his hands and kissed him soundly, his mouth somehow familiar, and yet too long a stranger from Laurent’s own? 

“I missed you,” Damen breathed in the spaces between, “I missed you.”

“Yes,” Laurent said, because that was all he could say, and wound his arms around Damen’s neck. “Yes.”

They kissed for a long time, holding tight to each other, and it ended in a comical disarray of their clothing – Damen’s cloak and chiton partly unpinned and slipping down his shoulder; Laurent’s jacket unlaced in uneven sections that left the laces sticking out in loops and tangles all along his front. They both laughed at the sight of themselves, but Laurent’s laughter ceased when Damen unpinned the top of the cloak and chiton fully, letting the gilded silk fall to his waist, the scarlet cloak billowing to the ground behind him. 

Laurent could not stop looking at him; his body all strong flat planes and rounded muscle, shining darkly in the candlelight. He let himself reach out and touch, fingers following the firm lines and feeling the powerful shift beneath Damen’s skin as he breathed, growing heavier the further south Laurent dared to go. But he stopped at the enticing V of Damen’s hips, and stepped back.

“It seems, for the sake of fairness,” Laurent said, wetting his lips, “that you should unlace my clothes properly.” And he turned, presenting his back to Damen, bowing his head and sweeping his hair aside for access to the laces, and waiting. 

He was still not prepared for Damen’s heat at his back, for his lips to press against the sliver of his neck revealed above the jacket’s collar, a soft, sucking kiss that made Laurent think of Damen kissing him other places. Damen unlaced the jacket methodically, and Laurent wanted to tell him to hurry but he did not want to ruin the quiet intimacy between them, so he suffered through the slowness, and found that perhaps it was not suffering at all. 

Damen pushed the jacket from his shoulders and then tugged off the undershirt and –

“Laurent,” Damen said, and his voice was tight and upset and Laurent did not understand until he touched just below the scar. 

“It’s nothing,” Laurent said. 

“You were bleeding,” Damen retorted. 

“Govart reopened it.” Laurent looked at him over his shoulder. Damen’s jaw was set and his eyes were dark; sad and angry. “It was much worse, before. It’s mostly healed.”

“You should have cleaned it,” Damen said, worried. “It could get infected.”

“Really, it’s fine – ah!”

Damen scooped him up in his arms, as easily as Laurent had expected, and carried him across the room. Away from the bed. Laurent squirmed, and pounded his fist lightly against Damen’s chest. “Where are you taking me, you giant animal?”

“Where does it look like?” Damen said, and set him down in the next room, in front of a large and beautiful bath, which had been filled with warm, steamy water by a thoughtful servant before the feast. 

“Hm,” Laurent said, quite pleased with this idea. “Are you going to join me?”

“You can’t very well wash your own back, can you?” Damen countered. He reached for the pin at his waist, and Laurent was not ready for the abrupt lack of fabric. He forced himself to drag his eyes upwards. 

“Are you going to bathe in your breeches?” Damen asked, smiling, and Laurent seriously considered it for a moment. He had once thought himself a man, a boy no longer, but now looking at Damen he was not so sure. Damen was broad and muscled where he was slight and lean, and Laurent could not help but feel small and skinny and pale and altogether undesirable in comparison. 

But when Laurent undid his boots and unlaced his breeches and stood bare before him, Damen did not look any less entranced. More so, actually. Laurent fought the impulse to cross his arms over his chest and let Damen’s gaze wander over him, as warm and intent as his hands when he stepped forward and drew on Laurent’s wrist, urging him into the bath with him. They sighed at the welcome heat of the water, and Laurent had expected more kissing and touching at once, but instead Damen held true to his promise and picked up a cloth, wiping it gently over the wound and the dried blood around it, and stopping whenever Laurent winced. 

This seemed to go on for a small eternity, and when Damen finally set the cloth aside and kissed Laurent’s neck again, shifting closer behind him, Laurent was more than ready for it.

The bath water was warm against Laurent’s bare skin, and his sore muscles had relaxed in the steam and heat, his mind similarly hazy and calm. His back hurt, but it was a dull ache, easy to ignore, especially when he let his body fall against Damen’s chest, arching into him, into Damen’s hands on his hips, tilting his head to encourage Damen’s mouth on his neck. _Damen, Damen, Damen_ ; that was all he could think.

“Laurent,” Damen breathed, reverent, palms sliding up his chest, thumbs rubbing over his peaked nipples and making Laurent gasp and shift back against him. “You will be the death of me,” he murmured, words tickling Laurent’s ear.

Laurent moved back against him again. He could feel Damen’s arousal, and encouraged it, liking the way his small undulations made Damen’s hands tighten on his hips. But then, to his dismay, Damen stilled him, and murmured, “Laurent. You’re injured.”

“I don’t care,” Laurent whispered back fiercely. “Fuck me. I want you to.”

Damen shuddered, and kissed the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “No,” he said. “I won’t risk hurting you.”

Laurent groaned in frustration, sending ripples through the bath as he twisted around to face Damen. “I am _fine_ , I assure you,” he snapped. “For once, could you just live up to your reputation and _get on with it_?”

“My reputation?” Damen echoed, a tinge of amusement in his tone. 

Laurent let out an aggravated sigh. “In Vere, there are endless tales about Akielon men’s libidos and promiscuity. The popular consensus is that the majority of you are brutes who mount everyone in sight, but as it turns out I have apparently found myself with the chaste minority.”

Damen laughed into his hair. “I’m terribly sorry to disappoint.”

“You still have a chance to redeem yourself,” Laurent retorted, and leaned forward, away from him, until his arms were resting against the opposite side of the bath and he was kneeling in the water, ass still pressed up against Damen’s hips and back arching invitingly. Damen made a rough, strangled sound from behind him and Laurent smirked, stretching and peering back at him over his shoulder. “I’m still waiting.”

But Damen simply leaned over the length of his spine and kissed the raw knife scar between his shoulder blades, tender and open-mouthed. “I cannot give you that tonight,” Damen told him, palm cupping Laurent’s face, guiding his head back up until they were eye-level. “But I wish to give you pleasure nonetheless.”

Laurent stared back at him, mouth dry. “Then…what do you wish to do?”

Damen smiled and urged him up and out of the water, until he was sitting on the edge of the tub, back to the wall, looking down at Damen. Laurent’s eyes widened when Damen nudged his legs apart and moved between them, nuzzling at his thighs and flashing him a playful grin. Laurent’s cock was inches from his lips. Laurent gripped the edge of the tub tightly. 

“Oh,” he gasped. “I see.”

“Do you?” Damen chuckled, stubble rasping against Laurent’s inner thigh. Laurent’s knuckles turned ivory. Damen stroked his side. “Relax. I’m just going to suck your cock.”

“Just?!” Laurent choked out. “You…you can’t say things like that!”

“But I just did,” Damen countered. “I can say whatever I want. I’m the Crown Prince of Akielos, and I’m going to suck your cock, Prince Laurent of Vere.” He raised an eyebrow. “Objections?”

Laurent stared down at him, breathless. “I wanted you to,” he whispered. “Every day in the fields, I would look at your mouth, and think about how it would feel on my skin.”

Damen’s nails dug crescents into his thigh. 

“I thought about what it would be like, about you rolling me down onto the grass, and I would be scared and confused when you pushed up my chiton but you would hold me down and wrap your lips around me and I wouldn’t be afraid anymore.” Laurent was rambling, but his voice was steady and he enjoyed this new form of control, the way Damen knelt before him, eyes wide and dark, listening with rapt, helpless attention. 

“I thought about how loud I would be, and how warm your mouth would feel, and how soft your hair would be when I reached down and pulled it. And then I would fuck your mouth, maybe accidental and maybe not, and I think you would have let me. I think you would have opened up for me and taken it like a slut –”

“ _Laurent_ ,” Damen groaned, and the water splashed and Laurent’s gaze fell to Damen’s hand, stroking himself under the surface, and Laurent’s legs spread wider. Damen’s other hand, still on his thigh, was bruising, and when he thought about the marks Damen’s fingertips would leave it made Laurent’s blood run hotter.

Laurent licked his lips. “You would have let me, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “Even though you thought I was a common, penniless, servile goose boy, you would have let me, Damianos.”

“Yes,” Damen said. “I would have.” He nuzzled at the join of Laurent’s thigh and hips. “I will.”

Laurent cursed, hand falling to Damen’s head, fingers twisting into soft curls. Damen exhaled over the head of his cock and Laurent shuddered. “Do it,” Laurent hissed, and Damen did, dipping his head down and taking Laurent’s cock into his mouth. Laurent shuddered, unprepared for the heat of his lips, the wet swipe of his tongue against the sensitive tip, the light scrape of his teeth against the underside. “Oh,” he said, “ _oh_.”

Damen’s gaze rose to his, eyes dark and unfocused, and Laurent let his hips hitch forward, a smooth slide past Damen’s lips, already shining and spit-slicked, full and stretched around his cock. Laurent moaned, fingers scrabbling at the edge of the tub, hips moving in shallow, uneven rhythm, unable to look away. He almost felt like laughing – it was just so surreal, so impossible, to think that the man on his knees in the bath in front of Laurent was the same man who had once filled him with so much dread. 

_This_ was Damianos, the terrifying barbarian prince and future King of Akielos, the man he had unwillingly been betrothed to; and yet this was also _Damen_ , the earnest palace guard with pure intentions who had showered him with gifts and never made him feel anything less than safe and respected. Laurent moved his hand through Damen’s hair with slow reverence, overwhelmed, shaken to the core by the juxtaposition of the two men who were one in the same, two sides of the same coin. 

Damen hummed and leaned into his touch and Laurent briefly lost himself, head falling back against the wall and hips stuttering, gasping when Damen’s hand found the curve of his ass and pulled Laurent towards him, encouraging the push of Laurent’s cock in and out of his throat. Laurent was shivering, water drying on his bare skin, yet he was awash with heat, pulsing between his splayed legs and in his belly and coalescing in climax in the warmth of Damen’s mouth. 

Laurent made a sound, strangled and desperate, as Damen swallowed around him and continued to suck, sensation verging on too much. Laurent had no doubt that if Damen kept at it a little longer, he would get hard again. But Damen pulled off, licking his lips, and it was both a relief and a disappointment. Laurent slumped back against the wall, and whimpered when he saw the streak of white at the corner of Damen’s lips. 

Damen kissed him, and Laurent had not been expecting _that_ , and he could taste himself and part of him was disgusted but a much more prevalent part was thoroughly satisfied by it, by the thought of his seed inside of Damen. Laurent told him this and Damen shuddered and groaned and then he was surging up and his cock dragged wetly over Laurent’s thigh, swollen and leaking, and Laurent reached for it at the same time Damen did and their fingers tangled and Damen moaned his name, his _real_ name.

“Laurent,” he said, a helpless litany, “Laurent, Laurent, Laurent.”

There was no rhythm to the movement of their hands, but Damen did not seem to care, and Laurent felt the moment he arched and shuddered with his own finish and smiled when Damen nuzzled into his neck, tender even when his spending was splattered over their stomachs. 

“Damen,” Laurent murmured, stroking his cheek, his shoulder, his back, anywhere he could reach. “Damen.”

Damen was reluctant to move away from him, but when they both started shivering he relented and rose from the bath, going to find towels. Laurent sat on the edge of the bath, watching him go, chest filled to bursting with a fuzzy warmth he did not have a name for. He was…he was _happy_ , loose-limbed and languid, and when Damen returned with the towels Laurent could not help but kiss him, soft and sweet, and reveled in the feeling of Damen kissing him back just as sweetly. 

They bundled themselves up in the soft linen and though Laurent had expected they would naturally find their way to the bed, they ended up curled together on a sofa in the main room, so heavily cushioned that Laurent felt as if he might be lost in the upholstery at any moment. Laurent indulged himself in snuggling into the curve of Damen’s side, sighing contentedly and marveling at his hand in Damen’s palm, fingers curling when Damen’s thumb stroked over his knuckles. He did not feel the need to fill the silence with words, and they sat there together for a time.

Then Damen said, with a little laugh, “I cannot believe you wanted me to do that to you in the goose pasture.”

Laurent hid his smile in Damen’s shoulder. “Perhaps not the best place for such things,” he admitted. “This is a much better setting. Less grass stains. Less geese.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Damen said. “I would _love_ to be surrounded by angry geese.”

“Angry?”

“They probably would’ve thought I was attacking you,” Damen laughed. “Prince Damianos, slain by a flock of vengeful geese. It would be worth it, though, for you.”

“How romantic.”

“I am, aren’t I?” Damen squeezed his hand, and Laurent couldn’t quite disagree. Then his eyes brightened. “Speaking of romantic…one moment.” He disentangled himself from Laurent, and it was disappointing that the towel did not fall when he stood up and went to the next room. Laurent waited curiously, wrapping his own towel around his shoulders so that it fell about him like a slightly damp cloak, and studying the spines of several books tossed haphazardly on the adjoining ottoman. He was just about to reach over and pick one of them up when Damen returned, two goblets in his hands. 

Damen smiled and settled beside him, handing Laurent one of the goblets. Laurent took it slowly, with an overwhelming, unsettling feeling of déjà vu. He could not place it.

“Go on, try it, it’s sweet,” Damen urged. “It’s called punica. It’s a traditional Akielon drink, made from pomegranates, usually shared between lovers –”

Laurent dropped the goblet. The red liquid stained the marble as completely as blood, and he could only stare at it, hand shaking, overcome with the urge to flee as he had on that night years ago.

Damen’s hand on his arm dragged him back to the present. “Laurent? Are you –”

“Let go of me!”

Damen released him as if burned. His brows drew together, eyes wide and troubled. Laurent wrapped his towel tighter around himself, huddling on the far side of the sofa, knees drawn up to his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, and willed himself to calm down. _This was not that night._

He swallowed, opening his eyes, and avoiding Damen’s gaze. “I. I’ll clean that up, I’m sorry, I –”

“No, Laurent, wait.” Damen reached out again, then thought better of it. “Don’t be sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry…clearly I’ve upset you.”

“It’s not your fault,” Laurent whispered, shame staining his cheeks as red as the marble. “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

“It looks like something,” Damen said quietly. 

Laurent hunched his shoulders. “Your floor is going to stain if I don’t clean it up.”

“I don’t care about the floor.” Damen frowned, shaking his head and shuffling carefully closer. “Laurent, what’s wrong?”

“What if I don’t want to tell you?” Laurent questioned, glancing at him quickly, and then back at the floor. 

“I won’t force you to tell me anything,” Damen said. “But at least tell me how I can help you.”

“How you can help me,” Laurent repeated, and snorted. “Make certain that my uncle dies.”

“Your uncle?” Damen said, confused, and then, with horrible realization, “Your uncle…”

“Usually shared between lovers, didn’t you say?” Laurent deadpanned. 

“ _No_ ,” Damen said, and Laurent winced at the revulsion in his tone. “When…when you said he took boys to his bed –”

“Aimeric,” Laurent said. “He and Aimeric were lovers. Are still, I suppose. But I suspect my uncle does not fuck him anymore – Aimeric is much too old for his tastes.”

“Laurent,” Damen said. 

“I was thirteen when he tried to fuck me,” Laurent continued flatly. “It was right after my mother died. My father and Auguste were away in Patras. I was all alone. He knew that.”

Damen did not speak. Laurent could not bear to look at him.

“He brought me to his rooms under the guise of comforting me. I fell for it. He brought me that drink, and I would have drunk it if the caged canary in his room had not warned me that it was drugged.” Laurent clasped his hands tightly in his lap to stop them from shaking. “I spilled the drink. He realized I had spoken to the bird and learned the truth, and tried to use his people-speaking powers on me. I resisted, and escaped. He killed the canary.”

There was a long pause. Laurent closed his eyes again.

Then Damen said in a low, furious voice, “I’ll kill him myself.”

Laurent faltered, eyes opening. “What?”

“I’ll kill him,” Damen repeated. “Whether by a barrel of nails or by my sword, I _will_ see him dead. That sick bastard…and to think he almost won – to think that my father trusted him…” His hands clenched into fists. “I’ll never let him touch you again.”

Laurent blinked at him. He felt as if he should say something, anything, but all that came out was a strange sound like a choked sob. He covered his mouth hastily, ducking his head away to hide, but then Damen’s arms were holding him close and Laurent had nowhere to go except to him. He didn’t want to go anywhere else.

“Shh, shh,” Damen soothed, smoothing a hand over Laurent’s hair and kissing his brow, lingering there. “You’re safe here, with me.”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Laurent whispered, muffled in his chest. “No one can know what happened. He’ll – he’ll lie, and turn it against me, and make everyone think that –”

“No one will know,” Damen promised. “I’ll sooner cut his head off than let him spread more lies about you.” His arms tightened around Laurent. “Someone should have cut his head off a long time ago.”

Laurent barked out a sudden, helpless laugh. “It’s all so terribly ironic,” he said.

Damen peered down at him. “What is?”

“If not for him, I wouldn’t be here,” Laurent said, shaking his head. “My uncle was the one who persuaded my father to send me to Akielos. If he hadn’t gone to that peace summit, I doubt we would be together now. There would have been no Lykos, no picnics, no books, no geese, no us.”

“I still hate him,” Damen said peevishly, but the tension had eased from his body and the anger was fading from his face. “But, truly…I believe even if we had not been betrothed, I still would have been drawn to you.”

Laurent drew back, raising an eyebrow. “I am very different as the Prince of Vere than as a goose boy.”

“Are you?” Damen shot back. “You always seemed regal to me.”

Laurent’s face colored. “Oh, stop,” he managed. “You wouldn’t have liked me if you met me in Arles. I wouldn’t have let you like me. I had very strong feelings about my Akielon suitor back then, and none of them good.”

Damen frowned, genuinely concerned. “You were upset about the betrothal?”

Laurent frowned right back. “Of course I was upset,” he snapped. “I was not told of it until after it had been decided. I was being forced to leave my home and my family, to travel to a dauntingly foreign country where I was expected to wed and bed a strange man who, for all I knew, was a brute with no thought to my wellbeing.” He eyed Damen. “It did not help that Aimeric told me I was apparently just your type.”

Damen made an apologetic face. “I…can’t deny that. I am rather fond of blondes…though I did not know you were blonde, and still found you irresistible.” He looked earnestly at Laurent. “And I care very much about your wellbeing. I would never force myself on you. Nothing you don’t want, remember?”

Laurent touched the line of his jaw. “I remember,” he said. “I…do not feel that way anymore, obviously. I miss my home and my family, but…I think I could be happy, with you.”

“I am happy with you,” Damen replied honestly. 

“You have very questionable taste,” Laurent told him.

“No,” Damen murmured, leaning in and kissing Laurent’s throat, where his pulse beat through the skin. “Your beauty could inspire sonnets and start wars. And you have a clever, quick mind besides, and a good heart. You are too good to be true, really.”

“Well, we can’t all be brutes with large swords,” Laurent said cheekily, and Damen tackled him to the sofa with mock-outrage, and it was just like in the pasture, but this time Laurent did not shy away when Damen leaned in and kissed him, and instead surrendered to it, to the simple pleasure of Damen’s lips upon his own. They had to stop because they both kept smiling, and Damen helped him up so they could clean the floor together. A servant could have done it, but they wanted to be alone then, and as they scrubbed the last of the wine from the marble Laurent felt as if a great burden had been taken off his chest.

It was late, the candles sputtering low and casting the room in wild, flickering shadows. As Damen returned from discarding the wine-soaked rags, Laurent considered putting on his undershirt for bed, but found he did not particularly want to. So he let the towel fall, and slipped beneath the sheets, not flinching back when Damen’s weight dipped the bed and moved towards him. Damen’s breath feathered across his cheek, as warm as his hand, cupping Laurent’s hip as if it were something precious. 

“Goodnight,” Damen said, soft and secret. Laurent tucked his head into the hollow of Damen’s collarbones, listening to the beat of his heart. 

“Goodnight, Damianos,” he said, and let his eyes fall shut.

*

Laurent woke up to a warm bed and an even warmer body curled around his own, and had a brief moment of confused panic before the memories flooded back to him and he relaxed in Damen’s arms, smiling to himself. Damen was snoring, not loudly but enough to tickle the back of his neck, and when Laurent rolled carefully away from him he shifted but did not wake, deep in slumber. Laurent took a moment to study him, the soft brush of his lashes against his cheek and the gentle curve of his lips incongruous with the chiseled line of his jaw and his strong, muscled body which easily took up two thirds of the bed. And this was quite a feat, for it was one of the largest beds Laurent had ever seen.

Although Damen was a man, he was a young man, only two years Laurent’s senior, and Laurent could still see the evidence of a gangly, awkward teenager growing into his size, endlessly amused by the thought of Damen tripping over his own feet and knocking his head on doorways. But he was not a clumsy boy any longer, and when Laurent nudged at his hip Damen shifted obligingly onto his back and the evidence of his maturity was obvious. 

Laurent’s lips parted. He had touched Damen before, enough to feel the weight and size of him in his hand, but he hadn’t had a chance to look at him properly until now. Damen’s cock was very much in proportion to the rest of him; even mostly soft it was…impressive. Perhaps imposing was a better word.

Laurent glanced up at Damen’s face. He was still asleep, mouth half-open and chest rising and falling evenly. Laurent looked back down at his cock. He remembered last night, in the bath, Damen between his legs, and felt himself rousing at the thought…and the idea of reciprocation. Laurent drew in a harsh breath, and leaned down, eyes on Damen’s face as he pressed his lips to Damen’s hip in a chaste kiss.

No reaction.

Laurent was fairly certain that touching someone while they were asleep was a bit of a faux pas and generally frowned upon, but at the same time he really, really doubted Damen would have any complaints. And so, struck with a mixture of curiosity and daring, Laurent let his mouth wander over Damen’s stomach, grazing coarse hair and taut skin, settling centimeters from his cock. Laurent’s finger traced down the length of him, and still Damen did not react, save for a catch of breath that could have been imagined. 

Laurent licked a stripe up the underside of his cock. Damen’s breath definitely hitched then. Laurent eyed the shiny line of spit and rubbed his thumb over it, then the flat of his hand, and felt Damen respond, cock filling out, hardening in stages. Laurent kept his touch light but purposeful, and when Damen was half-hard he leaned forward and applied his mouth.

Laurent was under no illusions – Damen was not a virgin, and this was most certainly not the first time someone had done this to him. But Laurent suspected no one had woken him up quite like this before, and kept that in mind as he curled his fingers loosely around the base and let his lips envelop the tip. The taste of Damen bloomed on his tongue, salty and strong, but not as bad as he’d feared, and definitely not bad enough for him to want to stop. Laurent let his eyes fall shut and sank down in a long smooth slide until his jaw ached, and then he hollowed his cheeks and sucked, tongue flicking over the head. 

Damen made a sound like a drowning man, a loud gasp as he hurtled into consciousness, and Laurent opened his eyes to see Damen staring down at him, looking for all the world as if he was witnessing some divine miracle. Laurent, again remembering last night, hummed around him, and Damen moaned, eyes wide and shocked and pupils blown with desire. When Damen’s hand slipped into his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, Laurent hummed again, pleased, before pulling off and dropping a little kiss on the leaking tip. 

“Good morning,” Laurent said pleasantly. His voice was a little hoarse.

Damen groaned and wrapped an arm around Laurent’s waist and before he could even blink he was on top of Damen, their legs tangled and their cocks nudging at each other eagerly, Damen’s feeling heavy and huge against his own. Damen kissed him, slow, deep, and lazy, and they both tasted of sleep but Laurent melted into it, making small sounds into Damen’s mouth as his hips began to roll against Laurent’s, creating friction between them. Laurent was sprawled over Damen’s chest, legs splayed on either side of his body in an attempt to balance himself as he moved with Damen.

Damen spoke in the spaces between kisses. “I am so lucky,” he whispered. Kiss. “So lucky to have you.” Kiss. “So beautiful, you’re so beautiful.” Kiss. “My beautiful betrothed.” Damen’s hand slid through his hair and over the dip of his spine and Laurent grinded down against him, hips losing their finesse when Damen’s fingers dug into his ass. Laurent’s breath came out in a rush, and they caught each other’s gazes for a long, frantic moment. Damen’s fingers crept inward.

Laurent did not stop him. Instead, he fumbled between them, finding Damen’s thick cock and stroking him off blindly, watching Damen’s expressions to see what made him moan the loudest. Damen’s hand squeezed his ass and Laurent drew his knees further apart, and then Damen’s forefinger moved purposefully over Laurent’s hole and he jolted, eyes wide, and came just like that. 

Damen swore, and then he was coming too. Laurent, flushed and somewhat mortified, tucked his face into Damen’s neck. Damen’s chuckle rumbled through both their chests as he draped an arm over Laurent’s back, careful to avoid the scar. “Don’t you dare say a word,” Laurent mumbled, biting his collar lightly.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Damen laughed, patting the small of Laurent’s back fondly. “You are incredible.”

Laurent turned even redder at the genuine, uninhibited flattery. “I know,” he said, but he was sure Damen heard the tremor in his voice. 

Damen pulled back a little and smiled at him. “I mean it. You are everything I ever wanted.”

“And you are the sappiest person alive,” Laurent retorted, still pink. “Don’t say things like that, it’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassed for you.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Damen murmured, not missing a beat. His hand carded through Laurent’s hair and Laurent let himself ease into it, turning his face into Damen’s palm, indulging in a little nuzzle. “I never thought that I would get to have this, with you.” Damen’s voice was quiet, almost sad. “I thought there was no way forward for us, the guard and the goose boy.” He exhaled, warm against Laurent’s cheek. “But I wanted you so badly. Once I even considered telling you the truth, and trying to persuade you to be with me anyway, but…I knew you would never stand for that, and you deserved better.”

Laurent frowned slightly. “‘I cannot love you the way you deserve to be loved’?” he quoted.

“Yes,” Damen whispered, brow creasing. “You deserved someone who could give you their whole self, no strings attached, and I could not. That was why I left. I don’t want you to think that it was because I didn’t care about you, or because you weren’t good enough, because it was never, ever that.”

Laurent’s throat tightened, and when his voice came out it was unsteady. “Silly of you, to fall for a goose boy.”

“Silly of you, to fall for a guard,” Damen countered, eyes soft.

“We are fools, both of us.” And Laurent kissed him, as if to prove the point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS FOR YOUR COMMENTS THEY MAKE ME SMILE. and not gonna lie they inspire me to write chapters faster lmao
> 
> we're almost done guys. the next and last chapter is the epilogue. get ready for a masquerade ball, auguste & eliska, awkward af dad-kings meeting, damen and laurent bein' lovesick idiots, and more of all ur favs.


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE FINALLY HERE Y'ALL. IT'S CUDDLE SESSION TIME. (sort of)
> 
> also - bless auguste. i love auguste so much. did i mention i love auguste

_one year later_

Laurent studied himself in the mirror, and was pleased with what he saw. 

Miles and miles of white cloth, gilded in gold thread and silver lacing, his chest emblazoned with Vere’s sunburst. The cloak that spilled from his shoulders was pinned with a similar sunburst, and embroidered with a dazzling pattern of birds and stars that was entrancing to the eye. His hair spilled over the cloak in pale strands, held back here and there with intricate twists and pins. One of the servants handed him the slim gold circlet, and he lifted it, placing it carefully atop his head. The three sapphires gleamed upon his brow, finally in their rightful place. 

“Are you ready, Prince Laurent?” 

Laurent turned towards the voice, face splitting into a wide smile when he saw Auguste standing there, leaning insouciantly against the doorframe and grinning back at him. He too was dressed in fine attire, blue instead of white, with a matching sunburst on his chest, and a plainer circlet upon his brow. He extended a hand to Laurent, and Laurent went to him and took it.

“You’re shaking,” Auguste said, brow furrowing. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” Laurent replied, squeezing his hand. “I am happy. So happy I can hardly bear it.”

Auguste’s face softened. “I am glad to hear it, brother.” He smiled again, a bit sly. “You look quite striking. I am not certain Damianos will be able to contain himself.”

Laurent rolled his eyes. “Oh, hush. The real fun will begin afterwards, at the masquerade.”

“Planned this all out, have you?” Auguste asked. “One day you ought to start applying your strategist skills to politics.”

“I have been,” Laurent replied smugly. “Damen persuaded Theomedes to let me help with the designing of new Vaskian and Veretian trade routes. It’s been very educational. I think Theomedes is going to allow me to accompany Damen to Skarva this summer…I know more Vaskian than he does, and I am surprisingly good at diplomacy.”

Auguste was beaming at him. “I am so proud of you,” he said. Laurent flushed. “Somewhere along the line, my little brother became a man.”

“Six months ago, I believe,” Laurent said dryly. He had turned eighteen then.

“Before that,” Auguste said. “Perhaps the day you arrived at the summer palace with a flock of loyal allies of your own making at your back. Perhaps it was when you dared to tell Theomedes the truth. Perhaps it was when you discovered your power. Or perhaps it was simply when you shed your crown and title for servant garb and a flock of geese.”

“I miss my geese,” Laurent admitted, eyes already feeling a bit misty. This would not do. He refused to start crying before the ceremony even started. 

“I am sure they eagerly await your return in Ios,” Auguste chuckled, and pulled him into a warm, unexpected embrace. Laurent had a split second of thought for wrinkling the expensive fabric, and then cursed the fabric and hugged his brother back just as tight, letting his pattering heartbeat slow to match Auguste’s. 

In moments like this, Auguste reminded him of Damen so much that his heart ached. They were both so open, so unguarded with emotion and expression of it, and from them Laurent was slowly learning. When Auguste and Damen had first met, Laurent had initially feared Auguste would challenge him to a duel, and Eliska would finish the job. They had met in Arles, when his uncle was being delivered to stand trial for his crimes, so the atmosphere was already tense and unpleasant. 

But they had warmed to each other, and there was many a day that Laurent would see them talking good-naturedly or sparring together. The sparring was entrancing to watch because, as far as Laurent could tell, their skill was evenly matched. Auguste was older, but Damen was larger, and had seen more real fighting. Laurent thought he could spend hours watching their Veretian and Akielon techniques clash and coincide, swords flashing in the sun. In another world, they might have been fighting on a real battlefield, not as friends but as rival princes of warring countries, fighting a war forged of lies and selfishness. 

But this was not that world. That world had been smashed to smithereens the moment his uncle’s sentence was given – death. That had been nine months ago. The world without his uncle was a wonderful place, and though Laurent knew there might be other men like him – cruel men who thought only of themselves in their quest for power – he felt certain he could face them, and destroy them.

Auguste pulled back. “Everyone’s waiting for you,” he said. 

“For us,” Laurent said.

“For us,” Auguste agreed, and offered Laurent his arm. Laurent took it, and together they walked out of the dressing room, through the halls of Marlas, which were eerily empty. Everyone was gathered outside, on the cliffs overlooking the sea, and as they turned a corner and stepped into the courtyard Laurent was, for a moment, overwhelmed by the sheer number of people. 

News must have spread of the wedding, because outside the main courtyard, villagers had gathered, craning their necks to see past the row of guards, eyes wide and excited. A buzz went through the crowd at the sight of the two Veretian princes, and as Auguste walked him down the long aisle, the villagers began to toss flowers into the air; daisies and violets and wild roses. 

Laurent’s heart swelled. He had visited those villages often over the last several months, and the people knew him – their children came running out towards him with open arms, and the men bowed their heads in respect, and the women sewed little sunburst flags to hang above their doorways. Delfeur, neutral province though it might have been, seemed to have embraced him with open arms. 

Auguste nudged him lightly. Laurent turned towards him, and saw Nicaise sitting on the edge of his bench, dressed in the tight-laced Veretian clothing he had come to prefer, looking almost excited as he had been when he caught Aimeric. Laurent saw several of the other farm workers next to him – they had been promoted since then – Pallas and Talik were new members of the palace guard, Isander worked in the stables as a groom, and Erasmus and Kallias had become royal couriers who snuck away to the alcoves together in between delivering messages.

And Nicaise sat beside Paschal, who had taken the goose boy under his wing as his apprentice soon after the events at the summer palace. Nicaise, as it turned out, was more empathetic than anyone could have guessed, and was a quick study in matters of medicine and health. He was especially good with treating children – he and Paschal had sometimes accompanied Laurent on his visits to the villages, and on one occasion they had been called to treat a little girl with a dislocated shoulder. 

She had cried and cried no matter how Paschal tried to calm her, but when Nicaise stepped in and murmured something to her, she had stopped immediately. “Be brave,” he had told her, with the kindest expression Laurent had ever seen on his face. He had popped the joint back into place and still she did not cry. He had given her a sweet, and continued to bring her and the other children sweets on every other visit.

Laurent was very proud of him.

They continued up the aisle, and Laurent saw more familiar faces – Halvik, Kashel, and other Vaskian emissaries were in attendance, all dressed in their most extravagant furs. And sitting next to Kashel, her eyes filled with tears (though she would never admit it), was Vannes. Like Laurent, she missed her birds from time to time, but she was much happier with her new position as the Prince Consort’s Chief Advisor. 

The title mostly meant that she could boss around even more people than before, and once or twice even got to tell off Theomedes himself, which gave her great joy. She was privy to matters of state she never even dreamed of as a field worker, and she took to the court like a duck to water. Laurent was convinced she was secretly of noble birth; Vannes was just that good. 

As they neared the altar, Laurent saw the kyroi, among them Nikandros, who inclined his head with what could have been a smile. And in the row across the aisle, the Veretian company, his father at the head, with all the Councillors (except Guion) alongside him. Eliska sat closest to the aisle, her face bright and pleased, lips twisting into a satisfied smile as Laurent passed. She tapped her chest, and Laurent nodded, feeling the familiar weight of the pendant under his jacket. He hardly ever took it off. 

And ahead of her, in the front row, sat Prince Kastor and Lady Jokaste, her face a more subdued mirror of Eliska’s. In her arms she held Prince Leonidas, who was a year old and growing fast, his full head of dark curls peeking out from the pale blue blanket he was wrapped in. It was embroidered with tiny, subtle sunbursts.

Jokaste had kept her promise. The world knew Leonidas was the son of the lion, and he had been officially named as the heir. Theomedes had been reluctant at first, and Aleron disliked the fact that he was a bastard, but Laurent had made it very clear that there would be no other heir produced by Damianos, and that had been that.

Laurent turned his eyes away from the heir and to the altar, at long last. 

Damianos was standing under the nuptial arch with a look of utter amazement on his face, as if he had somehow been unaware that Laurent would be arriving. Laurent tried to school his own features, but then reconsidered – why should he? He was not trying to prove anything to anyone. This was not a battle to be won; this was his wedding. So he took a deep breath, and let himself smile, and it was worth it for the way Damen practically glowed with delight. 

Auguste stepped away from him, and took his place off to the side with Theomedes. Laurent saw Jord and Lazar among the assembled guards behind them, javelins raised proudly and eyes fixed on him with unflinching loyalty and, if one looked close enough, deep admiration. There was a similar look in Damen’s eyes, though his was equal parts admiration and adoration. Laurent had never thought anyone would look at him like that. He dug his nails into his palm. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

Laurent went to the arch, to Damen, and stood before him. He extended his hands, and Damen took them, enfolding them in his own. “Laurent of Vere,” Damen said, his voice loud yet strangely private.

“Damianos of Akielos,” Laurent replied. Damen wore a long, artfully draped chiton edged with gold threadwork, his lion pin shining proudly on his shoulder, holding in place the huge scarlet cloak that spilled from his shoulders and pooled on the ground around him. It looked almost as soft as his hair, and his face, clean-shaven for the occasion. It made him look younger, and more beautiful, if that was even possible. The golden laurel he wore looked far better on him than on Theomedes, in Laurent’s opinion.

“We are here today to fulfill the terms of the peace summit between Vere and Akielos, in order to forge a bond of goodwill between our countries and prevent future conflict,” Damen continued.

“Yet we are also here for reasons unrelated to politics,” Laurent interrupted, and Damen blinked at him. A murmur went through the crowd. “We are here as lovers, brought together over a year ago by some strange force of fate that overcame the lies spun by traitors and saved me from being executed as a traitor myself.” Laurent squeezed Damen’s hands. “You saved my life, in more ways than you know, Damianos, and there is no one I would rather spend the rest of that life with.”

Damen’s eyes were definitely shiny. “Laurent,” he said, breathless. “I love you.”

Laurent took a step closer to him. “And I love you, Damianos.”

The crowd’s murmur became a veritable roar. “I’ve forgotten the vows,” Damen admitted, laughing and shaking his head, never breaking Laurent’s gaze.

“Fuck the vows,” Laurent said with feeling. “Will you marry me?”

Theomedes opened his mouth to object. Damen held up a hand. “Yes,” he said, “yes, Laurent, I will.”

“Then I take you to be my husband,” Laurent said, fairly certain that was at least part of the vows. 

“As I take you to be mine,” Damen murmured, and let go of Laurent’s hand to unpin his cloak. Laurent did the same to his own, and turned to let Damen drape and pin the scarlet cloak around his shoulders. The fabric was warm and heavy, and it smelled like Damen – warm and heavy in a different way. When he had secured it with the lion pin, he stepped away, and turned, presenting his back to Laurent. 

Laurent had to go up on his tip-toes to pin the white cloak to Damen’s broad shoulders, fumbling a little with the golden sunburst pin, his shaky fingers unable to unclasp it. Damen’s hand covered his own, soothing. Laurent exhaled, and slowed down, and soon the cloak was in place. Damen turned to face him, hands finding his again, their switched cloaks rustling around their feet. 

“From this day, you, Laurent of Vere, will belong to two families and two kingdoms,” Damen said, attempting to salvage what was left of the vows. “But above all else, you will belong to me, as I belong to you.”

“Kiss me,” Laurent said, and Damen did, letting go of Laurent’s hands in favor of cupping his jaw and sliding a hand around the curve of his waist. The crowd was cheering – the nobles with subdued applause and the villagers with whoops and shouts that made Laurent smile against Damen’s lips. 

It seemed ages passed before they parted, and yet it was still not long enough. Laurent lingered against him, and reveled in the thought that he was able to have this. Damen’s lips brushed against his brow tenderly, and then he took a step back and said, “It is custom to give one’s husband or wife a gift upon marriage. I present two gifts to you today – one typically grand and dramatic; the other small and more personal.”

Laurent flushed. “Two? Damen –”

“The first,” Damen said, “is a statue, to be placed in the Palace Plaza in Ios – it is being installed as we speak. It is a stallion, carved from the finest marble, in memory of Falada, an old friend of Prince Laurent’s. He was not given the honor he deserved in death, until now.”

Laurent stared at him. His throat was tight; he could not speak.

“And the second,” Damen continued, smiling slightly, “is a…guardian, of sorts.”

There was a flicker of movement from the corner of Laurent’s eye, and when he turned towards it, he saw a servant coming forward, bearing a dome-shaped object covered with white linen. Laurent blinked at it, and the servant stopped before them, removing the linen at Damen’s behest. 

It was a cage. A beautifully wrought silver cage, and within it was a yellow canary.

“Whether you choose to free or keep it is up to you,” Damen added, perhaps taking Laurent’s silence for discontent. “I just thought that perhaps –”

“Thank you,” Laurent whispered, and then, louder, “thank you.” He leaned down, looking at the bird within.

_Hello, hello!_ it chirped, happy and carefree. 

_Hello, my friend,_ Laurent replied, and the canary hopped around in delight. Past and present seemed to blur for a moment, but this time Laurent did not fear those memories that had once haunted him, worming their way into his mind and his heart like poison, belladonna in its own way. He had found the antidote, he had purged the poison from his system, and he was not going to let it infect him ever again. 

“I have a gift to present to you also,” Laurent said, reaching out and taking Damen’s hands again, looking into the warm, golden depths of his eyes. “Do not move, Damianos.”

Damen blinked, nonplussed, but held still as Laurent knew he would. The crowd shifted in confusion as no servant stepped forward with a gift, but instead the air, once lifeless and tranquil, began to stir like a waking beast. The crowd felt it, felt the flutters of breeze against their necks and hands, carding through their hair and sweeping past them, to converge at one central point – Laurent. He let his eyes fall shut in concentration, feeling every wisp of air around him, listening to it, commanding it. The wind did not always obey, but today it was eager, rushing towards him, swirling around him in a small maelstrom that grew to encompass Damen with him. Damen’s fingers twitched in his grip.

Laurent opened his eyes. Damen was staring at him, the wind howling around them, yet barely disturbing their hair or clothes, enclosing them in the eye of the storm. The crowd could not hear them over its roar. “This is my gift to you,” Laurent whispered, stepping closer. “I give to you myself, and all the power within me. Your enemies are my enemies; your allies are my allies. I am yours, Damianos, and so is this.”

And then, in the quiet of his mind, he said a single word. _Lift._

And the wind, woven so tight it seemed almost solid, did. 

Their feet left the ground easily, so smooth that Laurent hardly realized they were aloft until Damen gasped, his mouth falling open and never closing. The wind carried them up, up, as far as it was able, as high as Damen was tall; and kept them suspended there together. The crowd was awash with sound, but Laurent couldn’t hear them, because it was only the two of them, in their own little world of wind and stillness. 

“Laurent,” Damen said, his voice shaky, his whole body tense, obviously trying not to look down. “ _Laurent._ ”

Laurent let the wind carry him forward, into Damen’s arms, and pressed a calming kiss to Damen’s lips, hands cupping his face. “All for you,” he murmured, and felt the tension leave Damen’s body as he kissed him again. 

“I think you must be a dryad after all,” Damen chuckled, letting his hand slip into Laurent’s hair. “And I am the hapless mortal who fell under your spell.”

“My spell?” Laurent said, eyebrow arching. “Yours.”

Damen kissed him, and there was something possessive in it, something that made the wind twist tighter around them, keeping them close. Laurent shivered and kissed him back just as fiercely, half teeth, half tongue, messy and unrefined but so, so good. Laurent lost his focus on the wind, and slowly it began to die down, guiding them back down to earth, and as their feet touched the ground Laurent found himself swept up effortlessly into Damen’s arms.

“Ah! Must you counter every show of strength with one of your own?” Laurent complained.

“Well, I _am_ rather strong,” Damen retorted, squeezing the backs of Laurent’s thighs as he wound his arms around Damen’s neck. “No wind needed.”

“You brute,” Laurent snickered against his ear. “You utter brute. I suppose you’re going to carry me off down the aisle now?”

“Of course,” Damen said, grinning and glancing behind them. “My father looks furious. Wind magic was not in the wedding plans, evidently.”

Laurent peeked over Damen’s shoulder. Theomedes was indeed glowering, but beside him, Auguste was beaming, his hair tousled from the wind and eyes bright. He met Laurent’s gaze and winked, making a shooing motion.

“I believe Auguste just gave us his blessing,” Laurent said. “Onwards, Damianos.”

“I am not your _horse_ ,” Damen laughed, but he hefted Laurent more firmly against his chest and took off running down the aisle, much to the delight of the crowd. Laurent’s own delight overflowed, and he hid his face against Damen’s neck and clung on for dear life, smiling all the while.

*

He and Damen managed to evade the irritated kings and their irritating traditions for two glorious hours, during which they managed to ruin all of their fine clothing; except the cloaks, which Laurent made certain were neatly folded and safely off to the side before any ruining could occur. They hid themselves away in a spare bedroom, and Laurent lost himself to the familiar sensation of Damen against him, inside of him, bodies tangled together and breaths shared so closely that at times Laurent felt they were one being. 

Damen sat back against the pillows and Laurent settled in his lap, filled and fulfilled, head tipping back and lips parting in soft, simple sounds as their bodies moved together. Damen’s hands slid around the slim curve of his waist, up his back and over the thin, healed slice of scar tissue, where they lingered. 

Laurent felt his lips move against his skin, heard them say, _I love you, I love you, I love you,_ a mantra that made Laurent tip his head back further, baring his neck as if to a blade. But there was no blade, only the soft press of Damen’s lips to his throat, and so Laurent repeated the mantra in kind, eyes fluttering shut.

Laurent did not know how many times they found their pleasure in each other; only that by the time they were done his body ached and his skin and hair was soaked in sweat. He submitted gratefully to the wet cloth that Damen drew over his body, wiping away the evidence of their coupling; except for the blooming bruises which stained the hollows of Laurent’s throat and hips and thighs, hidden places only they could see. 

They rejoined the wedding festivities after a red-faced guard knocked on the door and told them that King Theomedes requested their presence. The midday wedding feast was well underway by that point, and all heads turned to them as they walked into the hall, hand in hand. 

“Finally decided to join in your own wedding celebration?” Theomedes asked with exasperation. Beside him, Aleron looked equally frazzled. 

“We were having our own celebration,” Laurent replied archly. “In private.”

Nikandros and Auguste, who were sitting together, snorted into their wine. Laurent led Damen to the head of the table and primly took a seat. Vannes, from several seats down, surreptitiously passed him a small piece of folded parchment, which he took and tucked into his pocket before Damen noticed it. 

“Quite a display you put on at the altar, little brother,” Auguste said. “I thought Father was going to faint.”

Kastor, beside Nikandros, chortled. “Never thought I’d see you so terrified, Damen,” he added. “You’d think you’d be used to him pushing you around by now.”

Lady Jokaste, beside Kastor, fed Leonidas a spoonful of lamb stew and said coolly, “Darling, I would very much like to see how _you_ reacted to being suspended seven feet above the ground.” Leonidas gurgled as if in agreement. Kastor blanched and fell silent. Eliska, beside Jokaste, shot her an approving sidelong glance. 

“Laurent doesn’t push me around,” Damen said, draping a proprietary arm around Laurent’s shoulders. “Not unless I _want_ him to, anyway.”

Nikandros rolled his eyes. “Some of us are trying to eat, Damen.”

“Oh, no, I’m intrigued,” Auguste said, bumping Nikandros’s shoulder. “How often does my little brother throw the mighty Akielon around with his marvelous wind powers?” 

Damen turned pink. “There’s less throwing and more –”

Jokaste cleared her throat and patted Leonidas’s head while giving them all a thin, pointed smile. “He is just learning to speak, you know. It would be a shame if he picked up anything unsavory.”

“Thank you,” Nikandros muttered. 

Damen’s face brightened. “He is speaking? Already?” He smiled. “I should not be so surprised. His mother is one of the cleverest people I know.”

Jokaste flushed, a rare sight, and Laurent might have been jealous if Damen’s words weren’t entirely true. “Well,” she said, lifting Leonidas up in her arms, “just little words, but yes, he is speaking. Would you like to hold him? He may say something just for you.”

Damen nodded eagerly, and she stood and passed the child to him, standing by his chair as he sat and cradled Leonidas carefully. It was almost amusing to look at the small child held so tenderly in his large, muscled arms…almost. The scene did strange things to Laurent’s heart, especially when Leonidas gave Damen a toothy smile and reached for the lion pin, grabbing at it with tiny fingers and kicking his stubby legs in glee. He made some more gurgling sounds, but no real words. Damen didn’t seem to mind.

Jokaste looked to Laurent. “You may hold him also, if you wish.”

Laurent inclined his head, and Damen handed Leonidas to him, the baby squirming and giggling during the transfer but calming almost as soon as Laurent tucked him against his chest. He was hardly a baby anymore, Laurent thought – already he was so much bigger, sleeping less and playing more, crying less and vocalizing himself in other ways, even if they were not quite words. 

But he was very quiet in Laurent’s arms, and blinked up at him with large brown eyes. Laurent stroked a hand over his dark curls, and Leonidas reached up, touching his hair – not pulling, just petting. Then he said, happily, “Mama.” A ripple went through all within earshot.

Laurent blushed. “Not very good with faces, is he?”

Jokaste laughed softly, shaking her head. “Perhaps he believes he has more than one mother. You visit him often enough.”

“Mama!” Leonidas exclaimed again, pawing at Laurent’s chin and giggling. “Mama!”

“Hush, Leo,” Jokaste said, taking Leonidas back. He seemed slightly confused by the change, but was soothed by another spoonful of lamb stew. 

Damen looked at Laurent curiously. “You visit him that frequently?”

“He is like family,” Laurent said, not meeting his gaze. 

“True enough!” Kastor agreed loudly. “You are practically his uncle!”

Laurent set his goblet down a bit too forcefully. Damen’s arm tightened around his shoulders. Auguste and Nikandros looked as if they were seriously considering smacking Kastor upside the head. Eliska held her fork like a weapon. Leonidas exclaimed, “Uncle!”

There was an awkward, pregnant pause. Then Jokaste said quietly, “Yes, Leo. Uncle Laurent.” She sat him up against her chest and pointed to Laurent. “Can you say that? Uncle Laurent.”

Leonidas scrunched up his face at the unfamiliar Veretian vowels. “Uncle…L-la…Laurent?” 

Laurent exhaled. He had pronounced it perfectly. Perhaps the Veretian lullabies had paid off after all. “Very good, Leo,” Jokaste said, ruffling his hair. She met Laurent’s eyes, and he was certain she was thinking the same thing. 

“He has a gift for language,” Nikandros said, grudgingly impressed. “Let us hope he has a gift for practical skills such as swordsmanship as well.”

“Not everything can be solved by slashing your way through it, Nikandros,” Laurent countered, and let his tension fall away as the conversation became more comfortable. Towards the end of the meal, he pulled the paper from his pocket and read it.

_Everything in place for tonight. Will send them to your rooms after banquet. Stables are ready for you. You’re welcome._

_– V_

Laurent did not have many friends, but those he did have were very, very close to his heart.

He slipped away after the banquet, promising to see Damen at the masquerade that night and feigning exhaustion as he hurried off to his room. They had long ago dispensed with formalities and often shared Damen’s rooms, but Laurent did have his own, and when he reached them they were occupied as promised with the people Vannes had found. 

They were as talented as he had expected, and when they had finished with him he was hardly recognizable, which was rather the point.

*

Laurent arrived purposefully late to the masquerade, ignoring the knocks on his door and only leaving once they had gone, drifting through the silent halls like a sort of ghost. Masquerades were typically Veretian traditions, but the Akielons had embraced it, leaping at the chance to dress more extravagantly than they had ever dreamed of. Most masquerades had some sort of theme, the most common being to dress as some sort of animal, which was tonight’s. 

As Laurent descended the stairs to the ballroom alone, he surveyed the creatures of the crowd – wolves, bears, horses, owls, pigs, cats, deer, rabbits, and many others. The sea of masks was equal parts entertaining and disorienting to look at, and Laurent kept to the fringes of the crowd, taking the wine flute offered to him and sipping it slowly, searching the crowd for familiar faces.

He did not have to look long before one found him. A red fox, her dress the color of his wine, eyes dark and piercing behind her mask. “Hello, Vannes,” he said. 

She clicked her tongue. “You know, I wasn’t sure it would work, but…hm. You do look rather good in black. Though I suppose you knew that.”

“Thank you. Red suits you,” Laurent told her. “Has he figured it out yet?”

“That you’re not here?” Vannes shrugged. “He is delightfully bewildered. I sent several of the witty blondes up to him, and he’s fairly certain none of them are you, but how can he be sure?”

“He probably thinks he’s going mad,” someone piped up from behind Vannes. She stepped aside and a boy in a gray cat mask was revealed, large blue eyes bright with amusement. Nicaise smirked. “You really look like a witch now,” he told Laurent. 

“Is that a compliment?”

“If you were aiming for mysterious and dark woodland spirit who is just as likely to kiss you as to kill you, then yes, well done,” Nicaise declared. “But you should have dyed your hair black.”

“I want to give him a shock, not stop his heart,” Laurent chuckled.

“That’s no fun,” Nicaise said, and, catching sight of a servant carrying a tray of scones, ran off to apprehend him. 

“What is my husband wearing?” Laurent asked.

Vannes’s lips curled slyly. “I trust you will be able to recognize him,” she said, and before he could protest she disappeared into the crowd as the music swelled and the dancing begun. 

Laurent found himself dancing with a tipsy woman in a squirrel mask who could not stop gushing about his costume. “So many _feathers_ ,” she tittered. “And it’s black, but there are so many colors! However did you manage that?”

“Iridescence,” Laurent told her, spinning her in his arms. “It’s a trick of the light.”

“How splendid!” she said.

He went through a leopard, a bat, and a deer before he found himself face to face with a white swan, who looked over him with some surprise before recognition flickered in her pale eyes. “Playing games tonight, are we?”

“Always, Lady Jokaste,” Laurent murmured, taking her hand as the next dance begun. “You wouldn’t have happened to see my husband, would you?”

“I did,” Jokaste said, hands light on his shoulders. “He was very worried about your absence. I suggested he just wasn’t looking closely enough.”

“I’m sure he took that well,” Laurent said.

“He was looking like a lost puppy when I left him,” Jokaste hinted, releasing his hand as they reached a lull in the music. She waved a hand to the right side of the ballroom. “You may find him there. I will lure Nikandros away for you.” Jokaste wove through the crowd and Laurent saw her take the arm of a black bear, tugging him away to the dance floor. 

The bear glanced around suspiciously but eventually conceded, and as Laurent made his way to the right side he saw more and more familiar faces – a rabbit and a peacock (Erasmus and Kallias); a lion and a panther (Theomedes and Aleron); a brown bear (Kastor); a hawk, a falcon, and a tiger (Halvik, Kashel, and Eliska); and finally, a stag and a wolf.

Auguste was patting Damen on the shoulder, golden antlers curving up from the brow of his mask, while Damen quite obviously moped. If he had been a real wolf, his ears would be drooping. Laurent smothered a smile and started towards them, swaying his hips just so, in a far more seductive manner than he had ever approached Damen before. That should throw him off a little.

Sure enough, Damen looked at him with confusion and slight panic as he stopped before him, shifting his weight onto one hip and folding his arms. “Damianos-Exalted,” he said, not in his Veretian accent, not in his Blackpond accent, but in the accent of Akielon nobility. He had been practicing, and it sounded very convincing, if Damen’s furrowing brow was any indication. He turned to Auguste, bowing his head. “Your Highness.”

Auguste was confused too, but he hid it better. “My, my, Damianos,” he said, “you have no shortage of hopeful suitors tonight. Though this one is particularly striking.”

“Yes, he is,” Damen said, half to himself, and then cleared his throat hastily. “I apologize, but if you’re about to ask for a dance, I must refuse. I have not yet danced with my husband.”

“Haven’t you?” Laurent asked.

Damen frowned and glanced at Auguste as if for moral support. “I…do not believe so?”

“How can you be so uncertain?”

Damen huffed out a laugh. “I think you must be the sixth beautiful blonde man who has approached me tonight.”

“Seventh,” Auguste corrected, narrowing his eyes at Laurent keenly. Then his lips parted in a silent, _oh_. “Ah…Damianos, it is growing late. Maybe Laurent fell asleep and lost track of time, or maybe he is simply distracted – either way, you mustn’t let that stop you from enjoying the festivities.”

“One dance can’t hurt,” Laurent coaxed, stepping closer, looking at Damen through his lashes. 

Damen bit his lip hard. “I shouldn’t –”

“Laurent wouldn’t want you to stand around brooding,” Auguste added. “It’s just a dance.”

Just a dance, yes, but when Damen capitulated and hesitantly took Laurent’s gloved hand and led him to the center of the room, the music’s tempo abruptly changed, slowing, growing distinctly deeper and more sensual. Laurent mentally applauded Vannes’s impeccable timing. Damen stiffened and grit his teeth. It was really very sweet of him, to be showing such restraint, keeping a distance between them.

Laurent closed the distance, pressing himself against Damen’s front as the other dancers were, and Damen jolted, an abortive attempt to keep it chaste. Laurent smirked at him, letting his hand wander down Damen’s spine, stopping at the small of his back and tugging their hips together. “Really, I don’t think –” Damen said, strangled.

“He won’t mind,” Laurent breathed against Damen’s ear, going up on his tiptoes to reach it. “In fact, maybe this is exactly what he wants.” Damen’s breath came out in a rush. “You gave him two gifts…he just wants to make it even.”

Damen’s hand settled slowly on his hip. He searched Laurent’s face, most of which was hidden by the mask of black feathers, and then he deftly reached down and untied the first three laces of Laurent’s black jacket, exposing his throat where the pendant hung…and the bruises just above it. His eyes darkened in approval, his thumb pressed into one, and Laurent’s breath caught. Damen swayed slightly against him, leaving the laces untied, hand moving up to Laurent’s hair, shorn short, just under his ears. His fingers scratched lightly over Laurent’s scalp and he felt the way Laurent shuddered at the sensation.

“I don’t want to dance anymore,” Damen told him, voice rough and low.

Laurent licked his lips, and saw Damen’s eyes follow the motion. “Good. I’ve made arrangements for us elsewhere,” he replied. “Meet me in the stables.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and walked away, black feathers rustling and fluttering to the marble in his wake like a trail of breadcrumbs.

*

Damen followed it, and arrived two minutes after Laurent, who was waiting in the quiet stables beside their horses, fully tacked and tied to the rail. “It’s a nice night for riding,” Laurent said, and untied his mare, swinging himself up into the saddle. 

“Yes,” Damen agreed, and mounted Orion, starting off at a canter behind Laurent. He seemed to realize that Laurent had a destination in mind, and did not question what that might be as they rode over the rolling hills and thinly wooded dales. Laurent studied the changing landscape around them carefully, riding past the gnarled juniper tree and alongside the burbling stream, east at the eagle’s nest and north at the beaver dam. 

He pulled up his horse before the stand of willows, and Damen did the same, eying him curiously but still saying nothing. They tied their horses and slipped through the curtains of leaves, and then, suddenly, they were in another world.

The small glen was a secret little place, one that Laurent had discovered many months ago, and had kept secret all this time, waiting for the right moment. It contained a clear pool of water, surrounded by willows and cedar which kept it hidden from prying eyes, but what had caught Laurent’s interest was the beech tree along the far bank of the pool, spreading branches crowning the sky and splitting the water’s surface into jagged sections of reflected night sky. 

And it was around the base of this beech tree that Vannes’s people had placed candles, lighting the dark glen like hovering fireflies, casting Damen’s skin in a warm glow as he stepped forward, illuminating the wonder in his eyes. Besides the candles there was a collection of pillows and blankets, a bottle of punica, and a vial of oil, glinting in the candlelight. 

Damen said nothing. Laurent exhaled unsteadily. “I wanted this night to be special,” he murmured. “I know it is a bit…silly of me, but. You are always doing such thoughtful things for me and I wanted to…to try to do something for you.”

Damen turned to him, and Laurent felt as if he had been dealt a physical blow by the expression on his face. The closest word Laurent could find to describe it was _worshipful_. Damen had cast off his wolf mask somewhere between the ballroom and the stables, but Laurent was still in full panoply, face framed by feathers which Damen brushed over softly before untying the mask and lifting it away.

Laurent’s brow and cheekbones were painted in black and silver, gold powder dusting the high points of his face and covering his eyelids. Damen dragged a fingertip over one cheek, smearing black down to his lips, entranced. “You shouldn’t be Prince Consort,” he murmured.

Laurent swallowed unsurely, glancing up at him. “W-why not?”

“You would be wasted as anything less than a king,” Damen finished, and kissed him. Laurent gasped into it, letting Damen wring every sound and reaction he could from him, fingers tangling on his laces as he tore ineffectually at them, ripping eyelets away. He peeled the fabric from Laurent’s shoulders and set upon the exposed skin as if he had not just seen it hours ago, and left his marks there. His hands tangled in Laurent’s short hair and Laurent moaned, knees wobbling, sending them stumbling backwards gracelessly. 

Damen, undeterred, leaned into him further, shoving the jacket from Laurent’s shoulders and divesting him of his pants in record time. When he found Laurent was bare beneath them he bit Laurent’s lower lip, and Laurent yanked insistently at his clothes. Damen stepped back to unpin his chiton and cloak, and Laurent kicked off his boots, until they were both standing bare before each other, and Laurent stalked towards him, placing both hands on Damen’s chest. 

He urged Damen backwards, and Damen walked, eyes fixed solely on him, so it took him completely off-guard when Laurent shoved him as hard as he could, sending Damen toppling backwards with a cry into the pool of water, the splash shattering the solemnity. Laurent laughed breathlessly as Damen surfaced, coughing up water and glaring at Laurent through his wet curls, plastered to his forehead. 

“And you call me the brute,” he groused. 

Laurent went to the water’s edge, blinking at him innocently. “At least I didn’t ruin your clothes this time. And you needed a bath anyway.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk,” Damen retorted, and before Laurent could move away his hand darted out and he grabbed Laurent’s ankle, yanking him into the water. Laurent flailed his arms around until they were both spluttering and soaked and clinging to each other, the paint a smeared mess on Laurent’s face. Damen washed it away fondly, and when he was done Laurent sighed and rested his head on Damen’s shoulder, finding peace in the curve of his body. 

“At least the water is warm,” Damen pointed out, and then paused. “But you knew that, didn’t you?”

“It’s a natural hot spring,” Laurent said, littering light kisses over Damen’s jaw. “They’re everywhere in Vere. We use them to heat the palace baths – _ah_.” Damen’s finger had slipped inside of him, slide made easy by the oil he had used to prepare himself earlier. Between the warm water and the gentle curl of fingers, Laurent felt as if he had ascended to some new, unforeseen plane of existence where there was nothing but soft pleasure and even softer kisses. He arched his back, legs spreading and hooking around Damen’s waist. Damen hummed and then groaned as Laurent reached between them with purpose. 

“This is a gift for you, remember,” Laurent told him. “Your selflessness in bed is unbearable sometimes.”

Damen’s smile was sharp against his neck. “But we’re not in bed,” he said, and flipped them, hitching Laurent’s legs up around his ears and pressing against him, into him. Laurent gasped his name to the stars. 

*

They slept together under the beech tree, wrapped in blankets and each other’s warmth, the candles burning down to the wick through the night. The night air was cool, but near the pool steam rose and wreathed the air around the beech tree, so that when Laurent awoke just before dawn, the blankets and their skin were covered in condensation, tiny droplets that beaded up in Damen’s curls like a thousand diamonds. Laurent watched them glittering for some time, still sleepy and unwilling to move just yet. 

Damen shifted and yawned as the first rays of sun lightened the horizon, and Laurent knew he would never get tired of the dazed, content smile on Damen’s face when he awoke and saw Laurent beside him. “Good morning, husband,” he said.

“Mm,” Laurent agreed, kissing his cheek. A breeze flowed from his hands to Damen’s hair, whisking the droplets away. Damen stroked Laurent’s hair fondly. Laurent closed his eyes again.

“We should be returning soon,” Damen sighed. “Search parties aren’t very romantic.”

“There will be no search parties,” Laurent mumbled. “I’ve taken care of it. We have the day, if you want it.”

“I love you,” Damen said helplessly, and the breeze touched his face tenderly in reply. “I love you so much that sometimes I think…I think you deserve better.”

Laurent opened his eyes, and frowned. “Better? Than you?”

Damen frowned back. “I don’t know,” he said. “Just…you really do seem more than human sometimes, and you…you have _magic_ , Laurent, and I just wish I had something like that to share with you, as you have shared your magic with me.” He smiled ruefully. “But I have none, and I have nothing to offer you except my brutish strength and a fancy title.”

“Damen,” Laurent whispered. “That’s not – that’s not true. You have given me more than you know. You are noble, and kind, and _good_ …you were good to me even when you thought I was a servant, and that is something most men in your position would not have done. I never want you to…to feel as if you are somehow less than me. You were born to be a king, Damianos, and you are fully deserving of that birthright, just as you are more than deserving of me.”

Damen kissed his brow. “Thank you,” he said. “Sometimes I wonder if…if I had one of those gifts your mother spoke of, maybe I could have helped you, when you were a goose boy. Maybe I could have prevented…” He trailed off, and touched the scar on Laurent’s back. 

“You did help me,” Laurent said firmly. “You have done nothing but help me, Damianos.”

Damen made a soft sound and looked at him, considering. 

“I think there may be other gifts, ones less easily defined, but just as powerful,” Laurent told him. “Gifts of the heart, perhaps.” 

“It’s not quite magic,” Damen murmured.

Laurent looked at him, and touched the curve of his lips with a fingertip, wondering. “It is to me,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so, so much for your wonderful comments and kudos and overall support. YOU'RE ALL LOVELY AND I LOVE YOU <333 i will be replying to all comments on this final chapter, as i usually do with my fics, so please do leave your thoughts and/or questions!
> 
> this was a really fun story to write. i hope it was as enjoyable for you to read! this is one of the last captive prince fics i'll be doing for some time, i think - i have to focus on school and if i do any fic writing it will be for my Voltron Galra Keith au. thank you for reading!!


End file.
